Large Fierce Mammal

Today we welcome the month of December with a poem about Trolls. Why the hell not?

Taken from The Unquestionably Fanciful Booke of Worlde Historie which has been relentlessly hammered upon my literary anvil for at least the past nine months, and based on Troll lore I once had verbally related to me, Wringing Out the Trolls tells how Trolls are born, live their lives, and depart this mortal coil in a most unconventional fashion that is absolutely in opposition to the way everything else in Nature does it. Legend tells that a Troll is born in a form that far surpasses the dimensions of the largest adult man, and that through its life it dwindles unto the moment of its disappearance. Through it all, one constant is the Troll’s horrendously acrid natural scent that even as its bearer’s physical size diminishes, becomes progressively more concentrated until, at the pivotal moment of demise, nothing but its stink is left.

So now, here’s

Wringing Out the Trolls

By LFM

Of Trolls I’ve writ this little verse,
Of how they grow from bad to worse,
Made big at birth they shrink to death,
Whence Troll is gone, but stink is left.

There is a place where Trolls still dwell,
A little left and north of Hell.
Foul of mood and worse of smell,
Trolls never talk, they only yell.

Loud and ugly, big of feet,
The foulest things you’ll ever meet.
Unmannerly and indiscreet,
They’d rather burp and fart than eat.

To pass the days and entertain,
Trolls play at games like “Name the Stain”,
Gulp liquor made from phlegm and grain,
At tournaments of “Clog the Drain”.

They number few, I’m glad to tell,
But hard to judge it from the smell.
No gas cape, mask, nor diving bell
Such stink as this can ever quell.

Their number dwindles every year,
They’ll soon be gone for good I hear.
But how they go bodes ill I fear,
For when Trolls die, their stink’s still here.

It’s all in how they grow you see.
They’re not born small, like you and me.
They start out big, thence by degree,
They’re opposite of seed to tree.

The older Troll’s a smaller one,
Through life it goes from huge to none,
Its stink will concentrate ere done,
So when one dies, it’s best to run!

Where Trolls came from, no one knows,
Nor where a dead Troll’s spirit goes,
As dwindling through final throes,
Leaves nought but stink to scorch your nose.