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It's festive time! And all around
Bells a-ring and trumpets sound,
There are mugs and trees and furs.
It's Giving month! All through the land
Neopians feel cheery;
Whether they live on rock or sand,
Whether they're finned or hairy.
It's Christmas time! Or at least
It's very, very near;
The time of gluttony and feast,
Of goodwill and of cheer.
It's festive time! There are wisps of snow
Floating near and far;
Showing those who want to know
It's time to shout HA-HA!
It's festive time, there are treats and things,
All manner of delight;
And faeries rise on snow-crested wings
To wish all a good night.
Ramtor the Wizard King
Ramtor, Bruce of fearsome powers,
Awaits high in his guarded tower
With paranoia overblown
Like all usurpers of the throne.
For he once was the King's advisor
This foul fiend, this mesmeriser,
Seizing the monarch he once had known,
Into the dungeon the King was thrown.
The castle servants became enraptured,
And the crown did Ramtor capture.
With this one sinister spell
Did Ramtor seize fair Meridell.
Magician's robes, bedecked with gold,
Enchanted staff within his hold,
Although he bears the name of King,
To wizard's habit does he cling.
For he must be ever prepared
Lest challenge be to him declared.
The castle's keep and walls and ramparts
Are fortified within his Dark Arts.
Ramtor tugs his long, grey beard --
A symbol not of wisdom, merely years --
For any mind so filled with dread
Will find gilt crowns as gross as lead.
A Gift to the Littlest Bruce
do you smile that
angel smile when you
sniff the lullaby scent of mellow,
pure white milk? Do you flutter
those petite, pale-pink flippers
as they so gently brush
cylindrical curves? And
do you sigh with the joy
and the innocence that are
yours, as you feel the warmth
and love trickle into that tiny beak
in the form of colourless, opaque
dribbles? Well, then this
here is a gift for you: a
miniature bottle in the
delightful likeness of
yourself, from charcoal eyes
to the plump, red bow.
"Thumbert," said his mother to the little Bruce,
"Thumbert, listen to me and obey,
Thumbert, boy, I'll make a man of you one day."
Little Thumbert wanted peace;
Escape from the future his mother preached,
Every day down at the river's edge,
With open book to water a thirsty mind,
The guilt and shame began to grow.
"Thumbert," said his mother to the gawky Bruce,
"These adolescent years are vital,
To your future course."
The rich lady's boy, with shame on his cheeks,
Lace at his throat and gold in his hair,
Laughed at and teased in the streets,
As he learned to be what he hated most,
And his books lay long forgotten,
The knowledge gone to rust.
"Thumbert, son," said his mother to the Bruce,
"I've made you a man, now make me proud,
Show me how you'll rule this crowd."
And Thumbert with his breaking soul
Took the stage and wooed the town,
The perfect official, as his mother taught,
And Mayor he became, as he ought.
The days of strain, he cracked like rain,
Alone in the darkness with the office work,
They all had problems they expected solved,
And Thumbert dreamed of the books he'd closed,
The future gone rancid, ashes to dust.
"Thumbert," said the citizens in his mother's voice,
"Thumbert solve this heinous curse!"
He knew the price and called the Spirit,
And vengeance went as vengeance does,
In a Bruce turned bitter and a heart gone cold.
The dice were thrown, and the price he paid,
For decisions ill-made and blame ill-laid.
The Moquot now, he sleeps a Moquot life,
And at last the wrong path is set right;
At peace and stillness, relieved from the strife,
"O Mother, dear, are you happy now?"
Atlas of the Ancients - Chapters 8 & 9
"We've been every place the old Gnorbu told us to;
We've three fancy gadgets now. What do we do?"
As Roxton ponders, Clara wonders,
Poring over the ancient volume.
"I've been over it again and again.
I'm sure I've got it right and yet..."
The coordinates don't seem to make any sense.
The tome states another perplexing puzzle,
"Common ground holds the key to destiny's door."
Luckily this clue doesn't cause Roxton much trouble,
"X marks the spot!" he reports.
Hours later they aren't sure of their heading,
But Clara knows because of the book she holds.
The boys are fretting and they are dreading;
The researcher relaxes due to the tome she upholds.
A volcano arrives in the distance,
The crew approaches fast.
A new island discovered in Neopia,
Roxton and crew are aghast!
The crew arrive at the island,
Where lots of purple orchids grow.
They search for a path and
Seek a door as they go.
Roxton eventually finds a huge iron door.
Next he produces a silver key,
In the bushes it gleamed in allure.
They speculate how simple it was
To find a simple key.
Is it keeping something hidden because
This is what they agree?
They travel in a lift
That journeys down a chute.
Roxton sends Jordie back to the ship
To bring back their parachutes.
They need to jump down a long, dark distance,
And Roxton suggestions caution.
Clara hurries upon insistence
And leaps excitedly with good notion.
Jordie, then Roxton follow on,
To the centre of Neopia!
The heat is increasing degrees one by one,
Soon they land and they revere
At such an awe-striking, incredible sight!
A sound of whirring and grinding.
Cogs are turning in this city of might,
Moltara City was their own finding.
Total Poetry Pages : 2008
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