LO! 't is a Friday night
Within the lonesome latter years.
A plot staff's throng, bewinged, bedight
In write ups, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a tavern to see
Something pitching charms and fears,
While the players breathe fitfully
The event plot that appears
NPCs, in the form of monsters on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere unpaid staff they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Running like hell from various things
36 hours of Woe.
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its PCs chased for evermore
By a crowd that shall seize them a lot,
To an earth circle they ever returneth in
To the guild's dingy cot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the point of the plot.
But see amid the failing rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The plot team killing you!
It writhes—it writhes!—with constant pangs
The players become its food,
And over each quivering form
In humanoid gore imbued.
Out—out are the life spells—out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the npcs, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Alliance,"
And its heroes, who eventually perm
Top that.
I double dog dare you.