The Gnome Roast

GNOME ROAST

This is a tale, to make you folk wail.

It'll make you cry, (almost).

A terrible story, too messy, too gory,

about a gnome that was turned into roast.


I see your surprise as you widen your eyes,

But I tell you it's every word true.

And if you're a gnome, too far from home,

It could even happen to you.


It was down in Goldshire, don't call me a liar,

And I didn't come here to boast.

Three elves and a man, (some blond paladin),

And the gnome who was doomed to be toast.


They had him all trussed and he screamed and he fussed

As they basted his back with red wine.

And the elf she was pointing as the wine was anointing,

yelling, 'His wishbone is mine.'


He was hoist by his feet high over the heat,

With cheers of glee from the mob.

The gnome was still crying as his hair started frying,

'Til an apple was shoved in his gob.


(That shut him up)


The fire it was burning as the fat started running,

and the skin it turned crispy and sweet.

The elf she was starving and started the carving

As the gnome he was turned into to meat.


(It smelled pretty good, too)


They sat down and ate every scrap off their plate

Until the poor gnome was gone.

So now he's a ghost, this poor, doomed gnome roast,

And yes, that's the end of my song.