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1,100 Published Poems
Long ago in ages past,
Neopia was young.
The praises of a poet fine
Were often heard and sung.
Young Alstaf Poogle, scribe elite,
The king of poem and prose.
Meaning, rhythm pure finesse,
In works he did compose.
Upon his latest published poem,
He sought a venture new.
"I wish a challenge, poet friends,
Something I must pursue!"
No greater love did Alstaf have
Than poetry, that art.
"A contest for my poet friends
Is something I could start."
Thus the Poogle settled back,
The contest did begin.
Scribes and poets ventured forth
To read their work and win.
Since then one thousand, one hundred
Poems have been read to all.
Because of Alstaf gallery grows
From idea, started small.
100 Contests Too Late
A thousand times has the Poetry Contest been won,
A thousand times have these poems been read,
A thousand times have certain few come on top.
The 1,000th contest was a cause for celebration,
With Shoyrus and Scorchios screaming in elation.
If I hadn't known better I would try,
To bring that time back, every day of my life.
Even the darkest of faeries celebrated,
The great joy that came unto Neopia that day,
Even Dr. Sloth couldn't help but grin and think,
Taking a break from dominating Neopia that day.
But lo, behold! We're a hundred contests too late,
The 1,000th contest has passed -- to great dismay,
But no worries, no fears, citizens of Neopia!
This 1,100th edition will bring us just as much joy,
If not more so.
From an alley comes a wink,
a furtive claw extends
And beckons you to draw up close;
you do, but hesitate.
The shadowed figure holds a bottle,
says that he intends
To sell you all your dreams and more.
You nod, and take the bait.
An hour later, lurking by
a different trash-filled gutter:
The Krawk can't help but chuckle
at another job well done.
"This is what I live for," he says,
his voice barely a mutter.
He swirls his cloak around him;
his work has just begun.
He has more saps to sucker in,
more witless marks to con.
Neovia will soon be his
if all goes as he's planned.
The moonlight makes his blue-green scales
appear ashen and wan,
As Krawley stands, a shadow,
the world at his command.
Meanwhile, you have gone back home,
are standing by your bed.
"Bruno," you say to yourself,
"This is what you need
To be strong, impress your Lily,"
so you go ahead:
Uncork the flask and take a sip,
paying your doubts no heed.
You go to bed and dream about
how handsome you'll become,
And lo, when you awake, it seems
your dreams have all come true.
But late that night, you scream
as to the potion you succumb.
You curse the Krawk who sold you
that alluring, greenish brew.
Your muscles bulge, your face distorts,
you grow to twice your size;
Your hulking figure terrifies
the townsfolk that you meet.
You look out at this twisted world
from your great, yellow eyes
And wish you could reclaim your life
before that Krawk's deceit.
Krawley crouches, watching you,
alone across the lane.
The potion has worked better than
he'd thought it would perform.
He glances upward to the sky
and feels a drop of rain,
The very first in what will soon
become a fearsome storm.
He turns to slink away, but wait!
He has been spotted here!
An Aisha peers up at him, her face
innocent as the ocean.
"Hello, there, child," Krawley lilts,
his voice, oh, so sincere.
"Would you perhaps be interested
in purchasing a potion?"
The Grey Faerie's Wings
Doom clouds soar above us,
Rain cascades like tears.
Neopians from all around,
Come forth, lend me your ears...
For I've a tale to tell you
Of wind, of storm, of light.
A certain faerie Baelia
Will once again take flight.
Her wings were clipped and battered;
She could not fly away.
Locked and drained of everything
Until the dawn of day.
Young Tavi climbs the mountain;
Her eyes burn bright and strong.
She sets free the faerie Baelia
Who's waited all night long.
And so, let fall the thunder,
And so, let pour the rain,
For everybody knows one day
She'll take to the sky again.
King Hagan the Wise
Morning slowly gilds the skies,
As the sun's first rays bathe Brightvale
In a painter's palette of pink and cream,
Far off in a distance a Wibreth cries.
A castle stands tall and high,
It looms majestically o'er the land,
With ancient walls, strong gates and moat,
Its towers reach the clouds in the sky.
The castle bustled with life,
The maids rushed to and fro,
The cooks tended to the stove,
The castle is filled with peace and not strife.
This is the home of Hagan the King,
Known for his mercy and kindness,
His subjects do their King adore
And his praises all day do they sing.
The advisors knocked on the King's door,
Only silence greeted their waiting ears,
The room was empty, the King was gone,
"Oh, where could he be?" they did implore.
The advisors searched high and low,
They scoured the kitchen and the library,
They checked the throne room and the study,
With dejection their footsteps did finally slow.
The advisors slumped to the ground,
Where could their beloved King be?
They had looked everywhere, or so they thought,
Until a little maid made a gleeful sound.
"I know where the King is!" she said with a grin,
She jumped up and down in excitement,
She motioned for the advisors to follow her
Before she ran up a flight of stairs with a spin.
The stairs to a small turret did lead,
The door swung open with a loud creak,
The advisors all stared at the sight,
Their eyes showed surprise for all to read.
There in the room was Hagan with book in hand,
He sat upon a wooden chair,
His brows furrowed in concentration,
When he saw his advisors he did stand.
The advisors exchanged knowing looks,
How could they have forgotten?
Their King was also known as King Hagan the Wise,
No wonder he was all alone with his books.
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