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CROWNED B%&&~
by B. E. S. McMillan
(posted with permission of the author)
It was after one well-fought adventure,
which left our group battered but rich,
that Gyre (I think)
said "Let's stop for a drink.
There's an inn here they call The Crowned B$#%+."
Well it seemed like a harmless suggestion.
Our throats were dust-coated and parched,
so we shouldered our packs,
slung our bows on our backs,
and into that tavern we marched.
There were halflings camped out by the kitchen,
two gamblers were starting to spar,
and a full dozen brutes,
wearing rusty mail suits,
stood between our small troop and the bar.
Now you might think we'd have been dissuaded
from staying to order at all,
but Kagan was able
to find us a table
that put all our backs to the wall.
Aye, the scene in that tavern looked ugly,
but we four were strangers to fear.
'Gainst horrible odds
we will call on the gods...
but not 'til we've called for our beer!
So--assassins looked on from the shadows
and the barkeeper's lass gave a shrug--
as we ordered some porter,
two kegs and a quarter,
3 goblets, and one pewter mug.
A half-orc was glaring at Sorrel.
The lady dwarf just looked annoyed,
but if someone got killed
then our booze might get spilled
and that's what I hoped to avoid.
So I tossed a full purse to the innkeep,
saying "Sir, I have frequently found
that all sorts of trouble
will drown in a double.
Pray pour the good folk here a round."
We the innkeep obliged me with pleasure
and we garnered new friends by the score.
Not one squabble started
until we'd departed
and the gold turned to copper once more.
So if ever you visit The Crowned B+*$@,
don't plan to pay spells for your beer,
because, since that time
they've hung up a sign
that says "No magic users served here!"
*applause*
Picturing the sign with a dog wearing a crown, I just wish we could override the profanity filter for this one deserving case.
Hee hee!