There once was a man from Glomdoring,
Who worried his friends found him boring.
He jumped at the chance,
To prove his romance,
With an Artisanal drawing.

A sketch of an orclach he drew,
With skin quite a marvellous hue,
Of vomit and faeces:
The jarring syntheses,
A'topped by a great head toned blue.

His canvas was enlarged in size,
To accomodate its painted prize:
Til one fateful day,
A wandering fae,
Believed it and died from surprise;

So lifelike the image became,
It acquired a good deal of fame.
And from far and wide,
From every odd side,
The vista was met with acclaim

And so with great riches was gifted
The man who's ill fortunes had lifted:
And as overnight,
His previous plight,
Was but an old memory shifted.

But soon, as often conspires,
The man lost himself in desire,
With credits to burn,
His stomach a'churn,
And in his heart burning a fire:

The man sought new sources of income,
And soon learned, in order to get some,
One had to kill,
Or be good with a quill,
Or influence til one's face became plum.

Deciding to stick with his art,
A fresh subject he sought to start,
A new painting of,
And with new resolve,
Set forth with sovereigns in his heart.

Our artist did journey a'far,
To the gates of Magnagora,
Yet he was denied,
For who would prescribe
A Wyrm in the city to mar?

Next to the woods of the Wilde,
Where he found the tree huggers quite riled,
That he would declare,
With pomp and flair,
His intent to depict corpses piled:

For one thing our debonair art-type
Had inferred from his month-long hike,
Was that violence pays,
More than most things these days,
And gold made him happy, alright?

So to the Righteous Principality
Went forth our painter of reality,
WIth easel in hand,
The transcendant man,
Did forge brand new paths of legality:

An orgy of dead angels broken,
Was arranged in an informal token,
'Round the Starry Pool,
While Celest's vanquish'd rule,
Hopped away while angrily croakin'.

Yet the artist was met with dismay,
When the 'Bloodbath of Stars' went astray:
For nothing can mimic
An angry art critic,
Who has come to save the day!

'Twas none other than the mighty Gorlach;
Indeed, that very same orclach,
Who's visage inspired
That painting sired
By he who now soiled his own crack.

With a look that was purely detached,
The artist did Gorlach dispatch,
But just for good measure,
While claiming his treasure,
To his foot the frog he attached.

So goodbye, dear man from Glomdoring,
Who found, in the end, its not boring
To wake in the morn
With ones guts untorn:
It's certainly better than drawing!