Shared Poetry of Nathan Wingates
On the walls of taverns, breweries, and pubs, are found posters and scriptures containing a fresh song for tavern entertainers to consider and perform. The author of the work is "N. Wingates."
Ode to Labur
"Hear tell of a dwarf, with saliva so thick
It drools to his chin, down from his lips;
Away it goes, as he spouts, as he spits,
Whatever he thinks, whenever he thinks it;
And away, too, as he yells and accuses,
Whomever he hates, whomever he chooses;
Yes. At you, at I, at he or at she;
All his betters. Today, who will it be?
If it be you, prepare for the flood,
Of slaver, of spittle, of sputum and spuds,
He hurls it forth, all wet and all heat,
In your face, on your arm, or at your feet;
To cross this dwarf, is to cross someone mad,
a mistrusting, angry, paranoid cad;
Be warned! Be aloof, beware and take care,
'lest his phlegm find you as it crosses the air."
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A new poem entitled Ode to Vick Blake is shared, on pamphlets and sheets, in the many bars and pubs of Peltarch, with the initials "N. Wingates" marking the author. Nathan Wingates is also seen buying rounds and singing it.
Ode to Vick Blake
Go on and pretend to matter a little
Spout off some lies through bile and spittle
Does it make you feel smart?
Does it make you feel clever?
To act like you know,
Every single endeavor?
Your legs must be strong,
To jump so far to conclusions
To be so dense, and so wrong,
And so filled with delusion.
Go on and rant, go on and rave,
We both know that which you crave:
Misery, conflict, deception and hate,
None will know 'till it's too late
How much you love,
to watch them froth at the mouth
to point fingers, argue, yell and shout.
Ruining lives, without disregard,
For we both know it's how you get hard
And excited, and eager, and smiley, too,
To destroy anything that which is true.
Go on then, sit, watch it unfold from the shade,
Stroke yourself fast, at the chaos you've made
We'll all know when you reach your peak,
when we hear some quiet, for a day, or a week.
Upon hearing the next limerick, Nate scoffs and grimaces, and waves his free hand while the other downs a mug. He remarks, after his gulp, "Yegods, what a pain!"
Before he rises on the table and sings yet again:
Again, with the wives? This dwarf needs a new muse,
Something else or other that he can abuse
Something simple, you see, for his mind tries hard,
To think any thoughts past thick layers of lard
That cover his head, all the way down to his toes
And whatever else in between -- though nobody knows,
What's past the gut that hangs over his tool,
Or the flaps of his arse, all covered in stool?
Who in their right mind would bother to look
for that little worm, hung like a small hook?
Send help! Send aide! The dwarf needs arousal,
To sing any song that isn't spousal.
And we can't fault the lad for throwing his fist,
when we know that his own wife doesn't exist.
Korak listens to the end, then hurls a meaty fist at whoever was singing Nate’s song, sending them flying across a table to land in a heap against the wall. Korak smacks some coin on the counter and takes up a mug. With the attention on him, he turns to face the crowd to give another limerick in a voice like stone scraping stone.
Teh walk on these streets the manling is bold
Here on the docks where his wife earns their gold
Aye while Nate yammers
She’ll polish yer hammers
Just ask fer the Queen of Cuckold
He raises his mug in a mocking toast to the last line, grins, and chugs the ale.
“Aye lads, oi might be losin me touch... but the bards wife sure isn’t.”
Korak makes an obscene gesture with his hand as he laughs raucously and settles down to a table before shouting demands for more ales all around
Nate, yet again frequenting the dwarven taverns, scoffs and dismissively waves at the latest limerick.
"He's losing his touch!" he remarks, with a note: "And, I'll have you know, that the bar is set 'low.'"
He purchases another round for the dwarves who by now may be expecting free drinks from the ongoing exchange.
All of this, before he sings his next tune, and again, distributes the pamphlets with "N. Wingates":
King of All Rotters
His skin is like cobbles. His smile is black
His teeth smudged with coal, and coated with plaque
His eyes, terrifying: red and deranged
If you breathe near him, you taste something strange
Sound of the dying, cry of the damned?
No, just his laugh, which makes children scram
His name is as ugly as his demeanor,
His scent makes us all wish that'd he'd get cleaner
Behold! Korak! Korak, King of All Rotters,
Welcome, charming and pleasant as wastewater.
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Korak hears of the latest response and shakes his head, finishes his mug of ale, then gathers the patrons for another drunken limerick.
It’s true surface lass prefer dandies
Soft as o’ baby and sweet as o’ candy
But all of us kin
Know that wide waisted rinn
Prefer o’ dwarf hard faced and randy
He bellows a gravelly laugh and buys a round for the other patrons before heading out into the streets with his mighty axe in hand
Nate guffaws as he hears the latest limerick. When he catches his breath and wipes a tear from his eye, and buys his own round of ales for those who have gathered. He remarks, his tone laden with sarcasm:
"I admire the imagination,
Of this dwarf's hope above his station,
To touch any lass, let alone a bard's wife,
Who won't run away, or fear for her life.
Or indeed shout her protests, complaints, and screams.
He could only ever do so in his dreams."
Korak listens until the end of the song, finishes his mug of ale and wipes his filthy arm across his mouth. He slams his mug on the table, hops up from his stool, and faces the crowd to bellow another crude limerick in response.
Fer any man seekin’ a session
The bard’s wife has much reception
But cause we’re coarse
She won’t lay wit dwarves
except wit, o’ course, the exceptions.
Korak thumbs to himself with a nasty grin that reveals his blackened teeth and laughs heartily before buying a round of ale for the patrons.
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As Nate hears about Korak's reply, he scoffs and he laughs, and can't help but smile. "Yes, I've heard of this one," he says, and then takes a drink. "It's funny, you know. Most dwarves are honourable, frank, truth-speaking types. Except for this one and his friend. They're the exceptions."
Nate proceeds to sing, and subsequently, pamphlets and other ledgers are distributed to the bards of taverns to perform yet another piece (labelled, as usual, "N. Wingates").
The song goes, and reads:
The Dwarven Exceptions
From here to Sundabar, the dwarves are respected
For the candour and honour that they've collected
And Narfell's no different; they are much the same
Except the exceptions. Oh, you know their names
They don't care for truth. They don't care for candour
They don't care for facts. And nevermind honour
They prefer lies. To deceive and to slander
To slake their egos, for there's none the grander
They don't care for women -- their chivalry's dead
If it ever existed in their small heads
I pity their wives, their lasses and spouses
Who suffer these males, that spit on their blouses
I pity too, the brothers, sisters, and friends,
of these "big, strong, honourable dwarven men"
Who've no honour, or candour. Only egg on their face
Who've sullied their houses, their kin and their race.
Yes, here in Narfell, the dwarves are well respected.
Except these exceptions, still yet uncorrected.
As Korak frequents the pubs on the docks to drink his fill of ale, he chuckles at the song and then responds with a crude limerick.
Thar once was o’ bardling named Nate
He thought dealin’ wit devils was great
The folk o’ the town
Said wit o’ frown
“Someone should spit on his mate”
Korak laughs harshly and buys a round of ale in honor of the dwarf that spit at the “dragon kissin’ - devil fondlers.”