In Memory of the Tower Guardian
Once upon a Krynnish dreary, while I pondered, bored and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious tome of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, definitely napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my tower door.
"'Tis some lich," I muttered, "tapping at my tower door--
Only this, and nothing more."**
Nah...
Give the broom to the lich,
For the wet winds blow;
Clutter has gathered in the ditch
With live ones down below.
For the dirt is flying
And the roses are dying,
And the kender are lying
Where the live ones grow. **
Hm... still doesn't capture the mood.
Does your lich moan low?
Does he wobble to and fro?
Can you kick him in the shins?
Can you give him a pink bow?
Now I'm getting silly.
There once was a lich from Nantucket...
Ok, I'm not going to continue with that one.
Ah, the Tower Guardian. I knew him well. From the time he came tapping on our door, to the time he went into his broom closet for the last time. Nary a month will go by without missing the poor fool. We wish you well, dear Guardian, in whatever world awaits thee after this one.
**With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
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