Author Topic: More Armageddon Tales  (Read 1563 times)


  • Legend
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More Armageddon Tales
« on: November 24, 2002, 05:29:57 AM »
Here's a couple of different works that a bard character of mine used to sing.  True credit for this one to Samuel Walter Foss, as I only Armageddonized it.

The Kank Path
One day, through the Gol-Krathu wood,
..A kank walked home, as good kanks should,
But made a trail all bent askew,
..A crooked trail as all kanks do.
Since then two hundred years have fled,
..And, I infer, the kank is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
..And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
..By a lone inix that passed that way,
And then a wise, large bull-tandu,
..Pursued the trail over vale, and through
And drew the herd behind him too,
..As good bull-tandu always do
And from that day, over hill and glade,
..Through those old woods a path was made,

And many men wound in and out,
..And dodged and turned, and bent about
And uttered words of righteous wrath
..Because twas such a crooked path
But still they followed - this is no prank -
..The first migrations of that kank
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
..Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
..That bent and turned and turned again...
This crooked lane became a road,
..Where many a poor slave with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
..And traveled some three leagues in one.
And thus a century and a score,
..They followed a kank and knew no more.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
..The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
..A city's crowded thoroughfare.
And soon the central street you took,
..As you passed on through huge Tuluk.
And men 2 centuries and a score,
..They followed a kank and knew no more.

Each day a hundred thousand rout,
..Followed the zigzag kank about.
And o'er his crooked journey went,
..The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led,
..By one kank near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
..And lost one hundred years a day.

For thus such reverence is lent,
..To well-established precedent.
A moral lesson this might teach,
..Were I a templar and called to preach.
For men are prone to go it blind,
..Along the kank-paths of the mind.
And work away from sun to sun,
..To do what other men have done.

They follow in the beaten track,
..And out and in, and forth and back.
And still their devious course pursue,
..To keep the path that others do.
But how the wise old halflings prank,
..Who saw the first primeval kank...
Ah!  many things this tale might teach--
..But I am not called on to preach.


  • Legend
  • Posts: 12
More Armageddon Tales
« Reply #1 on: November 24, 2002, 05:37:35 AM »
True credit for this to the Alaskan Gold Rush poet Robert Service.

Lan Farue

A bunch of the boys were wooping it up in the Gladiator and Gaj saloon
A kid that handles the mandolin was hitting a wild tune.
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Lan Farue.
And watching his luck, was his light-o-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was scalding hot, and into the din and noisy air,
There stumbled a hunter fresh from the wastes, kank-dirty, and wearing a glare.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a bag of sid on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue,
But we drank his health, and the last to drink, was Dangerous Lan Farue.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell,
And such was he, and he looked to me, like a man who had lived through hell.
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a kank whose day is done,
As he poured the Red Sun in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head, and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of a daze,
Till at last that old mandolin fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The wild-tune kid was having a drink, there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a carru shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway,
Then he clutched the mandolin in his taloned hands- by vivadu! but that man could play!

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the silty plains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear,
With only the howl of a wild jakhal, and you camped there in the heat,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for something to eat.
While high overhead, white, yellow, and red, twinkling alone, in bands and in bars,
Then you've a hunch what the music meant... hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with jozhal and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means.
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above,
But oh, so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love-
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Tektolnes is true-
(By Tek!  How ghastly she looks through her rouge- the lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you could scarce hear,
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear,
That someone had stolen the woman you loved, that her love was a demon's lie,
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through,
"I guess I'll make it a spread misery," said Dangerous Lan Farue.

The music almost died away... then it burst like a flowering bud,
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a leather lash,
And the lust awoke, to kill, to kill... then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way,

In a carru shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway.
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm.
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn,
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my sid they're true.
That one of you is a jakhal from hell... and that one is Lan Farue."

Then I heard a shout, and some lights went out, and two blades flashed in the near dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lamps were lit, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on the stone, his chest full of bone, was Dangerous Lan Farue,
While the man from the wastes lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with Red Sun, and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the sagely guys, but strictly between us two-
The woman that kissed him and- pinched his sid- was the lady that's known as Lou.


  • Legend
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More Armageddon Tales
« Reply #2 on: November 24, 2002, 05:44:30 AM »
Another with credit to Robert Service

Sith Matree
There are strange things done in the desert sun by the men who toil for sid
The Southern land trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run thin
The starry nights have seen queer sights but the queerest they ever did see
Was the night in the lee of the cursed Silt Sea I cremated Sith Matree.

Now Sith Matree was an Allanaki, where the obsidian is mined and flows,
Why he left home in fair 'nak, to roam south and back, is something that only Sith knows.
He was always bold, but the thought of gold seemed to hold him like a spell
Though he'd often say in his homely way, that "this wind is worse than hell".

On a windy day we were making our way along the Red Storm trail.
Talk of a breeze!  Through my trouser's knees it stabbed like a driven nail.
If we looked to the sun, then our tears would run, and blinded we could not see.
It wasn't much fun, but the only one, to whimper, was Sith Matree.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight, by our kanks, avoiding the wind's blow,
And our bellies were fed, and the stars overhead, were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me and "Drew" says he, "I'll cash in this trip I guess.
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request.

Well he seemed so low that I couldn't say no, then he says with a sort of moan.
"It's the cursed wind, I'm gonna give in, till I'm sand-scrubbed clear down to the bone.
Yet tain't being dead- it's my awful dread of a grave on these windy plains,
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail.
And we started on at the streak of dawn, but Tek! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on his mount, and he raved all about his heritage- Allanaki.
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sith Matree.

There wasn't a breath in that land of silt death, and I hurried, horror driven.
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given.
It was lashed to the mount, and it seemed to count, on me, using my brains,
For I'd promised Matree, and it's up to me, to cremate his last remains.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the gith, gathered round in a ring,
Howling out in untal that if I slept I would fall - Oh Tek!  How I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow.
And on I went, though the kanks were spent, and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in,
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it listened with a grin.

Till I came to the lee, of the cursed Silt Sea, and a broken wagon lay there.
It was obscured by sand, but I saw with my hand, it was marked the Kadian way.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my deceased chum.
Then "Here" said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-to-re-um".

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit a funeral pyre
Some oil I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher.
The flames just soared, and the fire roared, such a blaze you seldom see.
And I burrowed a hole, in the glowing coals, and I stuffed in Sith Matree.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so.
And the heavens scowled, and the jakhals howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was windy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why.
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in that blow I wrestled with grisly fear.
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near.
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked,' ... and then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Matree, looking happy as could be, sitting upon the wagon floor
And he wore a smile, you could see a mile, and he said, "Please close the door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in that breeze that stabs like a nail.
Since I left my track, coming from Allanak, it's the first time I've been out of the gale."

There are strange things done in the desert sun by the men who toil for sid
The Southern land trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run thin.
The starry nights have seen queer sights but the queerest they ever did see
Was the night in the lee of the cursed Silt Sea I cremated Sith Matree.


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More Armageddon Tales
« Reply #3 on: November 26, 2002, 10:20:45 AM »
Nice Twist to R. Service.  Now if you could make one for "The men who don't fit in".  That'd be a riot!

Thanks for the poems.