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It's Christmastime
There's a need to be afraid
At Christmastime, our Troll-spears all have nice sharp blades,
And in our world of pastry we can spread a smile of joy
Throw a fishbone at a Troll this Christmastime
But say a prayer
Pray if you're the Trollish ones
At
Christmastime it's very easy to have some fun
There's a troll inside the Bakery,
And it's full of dread and fear
When the click of Bubba's 12-guage is the only sound you hear,
And the clink of Baker's sword blades are the clanging
chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you
And there won't be buns for nasty Trolls this Christmastime
The greatest gift we'll let them have is life
(Oooh) Where no thought ever grows
No good ideas flow
Do they know what Halfbaking is at all?
(Here's to you) raise a glass for everyone
(Here's to them) let's spit roast another one
Do they know it's Christmastime at all?
Burn the Troll
Burn the Troll
Burn the Troll
Let them know it's Christmastime again
Burn the Troll
Let them know it's Christmastime again
An interuption by an unwelcome visitor.
http://www.luminari...donne/sunrising.htm
[4whom, Dec 31 2007]
[link]
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The most trouble I ever went to, for a troll. He never even had the decency to answer. |
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious idea left on the cutting room floor,
'Ere I nodded, eyes a-rolling, suddenly there came a tolling,
As of someone foolish trolling, trolling at the 'bakers' door.
"Surely 'tis some cretin," I muttered, "trolling at the 'bakers' door
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate trolling idea scattered fishbones 'pon the floor.
Eagerly time sought the morrow; -- vainly time I sought to borrow
From these ideas surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost rapport
For the rare and radiant feeling, of the 'bakers arms wide open to all comers, one and all
Foolish hope here, evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain talk of mobile 'phones and merkins
Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic knowledge I had never seen before;
So that now, to still the eating at my mind, I type, repeating
"Piss off, newbie trollster bleating, about the other 'bakers treating you with such harsh comment"
"Remember it was you came beating, up the foment, you're now meeting.
Like some scabrous, pox'ed whore. "
Presently their growls grow stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," say they, "or Madam, truly your boorishness we abhor,";
But this place has secret polling, and so rudely you came trolling,
And blowhardly you came trolling, trolling this halfbakers' floor,
You seemed quite nice when we first met you" -- when we opened wide the door;
Dumbness there and nothing more.
Deep into that dumbness peering, long we tried, but you weren't hearing,
Doubtless dreaming dreams no sane man ever dared to dream before;
But the spell was now a-broken, and your dumbness gave no token,
And the only word there was spoken...Fishbone !... Fishbone, more and more!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back "Fishbone number 34!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
Backs of all the 'bakers turning, indignation within burning,
Soon we heard again a trolling slightly quieter than before.
"Surely," thought I, "surely there is something sensible he has posted now?
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this new idea explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this new idea explore;
'Tis Real Donkey Kong, and nothing more!"
Upon there I flung a fishbone, and hope to break this trollster's wishbone,
Just to stop this spiteful no-one, with ideas which breach our laws;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a shred of conscience shewed he;
But, with mien of gargoyle shady, perched upon the 'bakery floor
Perched and spewed forth crap so callous, when we thought there surely can't be more?
Perched, and shat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony turd bewailing his idea's sad fate, for failing,
Other's grave and stern decorum, befitting of this learn'ed forum,
"Though thy wings be clipt and shaven, thou," I said, "art surely still too craven,
Ghastly little 'net-troll, raving, o'er and o'er, thine same refrain,
Tell me how The Cheating Game will make the world a better place,
Quoth the trollster, "Shutcha face."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fool to here discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with being such a crushing, crashing bore,
Falling foul of all and sundry here upon the 'baking floor,
With ideas like "Free Sedatives For Poor."
But the trollster, sitting lonely with his 13 ideas 'bonely,
And one with double croissant, as if his soul in that one idea he did outpour.
Nothing other had he uttered, not a charitable idea he muttered,
That the 'bakers proclaimed, "Another nutter, such as others gone before,
On the morrow he may leave me, less experience deceive us, as others here have flown before."
Still the troll complained of treatment poor.
Startled at the still unbroken string of fishbones in lieu of words unspoken,
"Doubtless," said we, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster 'til all his thoughts its burden bore
Till the dregs of crap that "Mandatory Reason To Vote No" bore
Oh, please ! Don't post no bloody more" !
But the trollster still reviling all advice and quiet cajoling,
Straight away posts another trolling about a change to 'bakery unwritten law;
Then, with feeling finally sinking, I betook myself to linking
To the Help File, thinking what this ignoramus troll, this geezer
That this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous trolling miser
Meant in croaking "Breathalyzer"
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, with no inkling yet expressing
Of the foolishness depressing I might find behind that door;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the 'bakery's velvet lining whilst I typed this little poem,
'Ere I idly wandered over... And of a sudden things came clearer, reasons seeming ever nearer,
Having read that confessing tome!
Then, methought, he grows but denser, there must be some way to censor,
All this crap that winds us in?
Surely there must be a limit, can we put his light out, or at least dim it?
"Wretch," I cried, "what God hath sent thee -- by what mistake hath he lent thee
Shit for brains, and cruelly bent thee, into this thickskinn'ed shape?
Scoff at [goff], for pointing out thy short points, thou drunken jape",
Quoth the trollster, "You're all wrong."
"Baphomet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- trollster still, if fool or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this pleasant land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore
Is there... is there anything in your head? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!"
But the trollster said no more.
"Moron!" said I, "trolling moron... prophet of the land of Sodoml!
By that Heaven that bends above us... by that God who ought to love us
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
Comes a day when thou unbidden render up some talent hidden and join us in this idea midden
Post a rare and funny concept other 'bakers might adore."
The trollster simply yelled and swore.
"Be that word our sign of parting, fool or fiend!" I grow tired of your endless farting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no annotation as a token of that lie thou fool hath spoken!
Leave my peacefulness unbroken!...please sir, quit the 'baker's floor,
Take thy head from out thy arse, and darken not the 'bakery door!"
We're sick of you, we want no more.
And the trollster, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
With his poorly written pile of fishboned crap scattered 'neath him,
And his ideas have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
Soullessly in endless scheming, and occasionally screaming when his ideas are called poor
I took my mind from out that shadow that obscures his uncaring face,
GeorgeTheTroll, please quit this place ! |
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The Troll Rising ~ UR Donne
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BUSY old fool, unruly Troll,
Why dost thou thus,
Through posts, and through anno's, pull on us ?
Must to thy minnions thinkers' seasons run ?
Saucy peripatetic ponse, confide in
"great" school-leavers and sour prentices,
Go tell pseudo-friends, "There is a free ride!",
Call commandants to your orifice ;
Buns, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
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Thy streams, so irrelevent and long
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a think,
.....
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She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all alchemy, wealth.
Thou, Troll, art half as happy as we,
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What's the tune, [4whom]? |
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John Donne, The Sun Rising.
Disturbing the otherwise peaceful situation in which kindred spirits would find themselves. Thought it apt. |
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