[A poem submitted by reader Jim Vorel]
Little peasants, labors bard,
always mining chopping hard,
never ceasing, working long,
building farms and towers strong.
Building houses, to abide,
never learn to go inside,
flee from danger, ever coming,
trampling stamp of orc feet drumming,
orcs are coming, sound alarms!
fearless peasants call to arms!
Oh dear maker! hear the squeals!
peasants die by arcing steel!
bravely fighting, many dead,
castles stained a gruesome red,
but when it looks like they are beat,
you hear the marching hooves and feet,
the army gone has now returned,
the npc's they slayed and burned.
the peasants now will have no fear,
they summon up a mighty cheer,
they rally now with bloody haste,
they drive the orcs back to their base.
but in the end its such a shame,
the peasants lives were all in vain,
for even those who live will die,
I slaughter them for psi.

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