Librarian of Alexandria

The Festival of Fears

For the Garaths at Sorn, by the seas great and black,
As they waited for all of their wives to come back
And fired their surrs at the tumelant whales
From the grelleking ships with no wind in their sails,
The longest of days in all the long years
Was the wintry cold Festival of Fears.

The moon, it was white, and the sun, it shone black,
The torizant leader crawled out of his sack
And looked at the rough, inimisal sky
Through one bloody black and one bright blue eye.
He called with a voice like terical leather
And gathered the whole symbadle together.

“Take a look at the sky!” He intoned, stret and strong,
“It has not been thus imfelled for too long!
I fear for the terrors this day has in store,”
He sholled with a tone like Hesago of Tor.
The men of the group stood up with a start
and began untellasting the ropes, part by part.

'Twas not half past krim when the specter appeared
With two fish in his hand and three streaks in his beard
His entility shone like a torch to the camp
And the men gathered round to hear his weftramp.
He circled two times round the statue of Triff
and with ultiffe in his eyes made off with a skiff.

Barely two hours hence an old baker named Shem
With a passion for baking fresh pan-à-la-sième
Stood up with a look of gelicine malice-
He huftily went and stole the chief's chalice
Then drowning himself with the vin de la çasse
He had stored for the cooking of malacanasse.

As the company stood by observing the cook
lying dead with the belicine cup that he took
they heard the somnaste of the spirits that flow
from the caverns of Krell to the fields of Sampó
which signaled the death of a servant of Hell
like a great, unholy Chamva-hall bell.

“'Tis a foul day indeed,” said the captain, vensure,
with a soul that was strong and a heart that was pure
but his men did not share his outlook on the day
with a garrable yell they all fled away
to the phenistal docks, behind which they'd play
their games of Pesmash and Sooda-Jalay.

In a blink of an eye came a thallaying shout
that prompted the captain to run quickly out
to the men who dempann'd and surra'd in their fear
of the corpse that was hanging off of the pier
with a look of incaelistic hate in his eye
They men, they all cried, “Oh, Marcello! Oh, why?”

With a bone-chilling beat all the graves opened wide
and skeletons started to dance deep inside
of the stone-laden shests and dirt-filled vadrós
that dotted Saint-Vien de les Grandes Sechosse.
The leader's old father stood up by the stone
that marked his small coffin on which no sun shone.

Every corpse had a black kyava-bird on their head
that filled all the terrified soldiers with dread
they dashed to the little flacsammed town square
and though they had just two surrs to share
they held out for an hour, and fought off the foe
that vitissied up from deep down below.

It would have been fine if it ended just there
but the oldest trempator received such a scare
that the heart nearly jumped right out of his chest
he fell on his knees, among all the rest.
“O samiscal day! O terrible knaft!”
He cried as he stole off with Serryman's raft.

Then all hell broke loose – though one might well say
that hell was much finer than that horrid day.
The sky bellased wide and out of it poured
snow cold as tristic, ice sharp as swords,
the men close to buildings, they quickly insook
and the ones who were further – well, they didn't look.

The wailing and screaming continued all day
while men lost their money at Sooda-Jalay
sembled inside of the homes in the town
fearing to look at the death raining down
fearing to look for their friends who were lost
out in the cold and ossamic frost.

By the time the frost cleared, twas the hour of Kvarz,
they jinellecked out to look at the stars
though the oranic ice had thawed from the ground
their fillicks and friends all could not be found.
The company stood about twenty or so –
the others, they guess, had gone up or below.

I wish I could tell you it ended right there,
the end of that horrible, destituous fair,
but truth will be told, the Garaths at Sorn
were struck with peurettre when they heard the horn,
the long low blestatto that signaled the tchaque
of the fears of the day – their wives had come back.

For the Garaths at Sorn, by the seas great and black,
in servitude now that their wives had come back,
as they worked at the gads making pan-à-la-stuque
and cleaning the house, every cranny and nook,
the longest of days in all the long years
was the wintry cold Festival of Fears.