Author: John Knetemann

The Kingdom is a series of twenty-nine poems. Find all the poems here.

The Elves are a strange folk, indeed they are,

They live anywhere and everywhere, quite bizarre. 

They have no towns, and they have no might,

They live on the road, never looking for a fight.

But the Elves are wise beyond their ears,

Which makes up for their lack of spears.

They live forever among the trees,

Doing whatever they so please.

They sing and dance and smile all day,

Well… until the Tyrant entered the fray.

They can heal the hurt and heal the sick,

With a small spell that does the trick.

Their magic can shield against attack,

Something great to have on your back.

The Kingdom is a series of twenty-nine poems. Find all the poems here.

On the edge of the Kingdom, there is a land,

Dark and terrible, directed by a cunning hand.

In its midst is the Black Fortress, oh so tall and strong,

And sitting on its throne is the Tyrant that never sings song.

“What use is a song?” the Tyrant scowls to himself,

For there are many uses for each tool on his shelf.

Throughout his domain, his slaves work and work,

His slaves can be of the race of man, elf, or orc.

They build and they build, for what? It can’t be known.

For in this land, the only thing that matters is his throne.

Their tools build tools, and their power breeds power,

All for the security of the Tyrant sitting in his tower.

But the Tyrant is a coward, it is easy to see,

He intends to never die, his power is a plea.

You must understand his throne is his fear,

And for that, he may never know cheer.

The Kingdom is a series of twenty-nine poems. Find all the poems here.

The mighty dwarves, there is much to say,

Was it the dwarves here from the first day?

Nobody knows if it is dwarves, elves or man,

Nobody knows how this world really began.

But the dwarves still remain, and the dwarves must be,

They may be short, but they are quite easy to see.

There are many kinds of dwarves all across the land,

You will find some thin, some fat, and some with one hand. 

They have shining crystal beards and serious rocky brows,

Much work they feel they must do so everyday they rouse.

While very hard workers, the dwarves clearly are,

Many comforts they enjoy, an alehouse is never far.

From the ground, it is said the dwarves got their start,

And working in the ground is where lies their heart.

In the canyons of the Kingdom, these people reside,

With great big statues, they show us their pride.

At the bottom of the canyon, under the falls,

Sits the Dwarven King with no need for walls.

There is one secret cave, outside of the dwarven nook,

With the great dwarven treasury, accounted in a book.

Oh, the mighty dwarves, there is truly much to say,

Strategic and skilled with a bill they will need to pay.

The Kingdom is a series of twenty-nine poems. Find all the poems here.

In a beautiful city, on the very center of the map

There were humans with many houses, hardly a gap.

This city was fair, though it had its troubles

On all the houses, were the roofs like bubbles.

The city was busy, though hardly a rush,

With marvelous parks, all green and lush.

On a yellow grass hill, so way up high

There was a smell in the air—mmmm! It’s pie!

Forget the pie! This is about the palace,

With blue marble columns, each bearing a chalice.

Within its doors, sat the noble human King,

Who had just returned from a hot spring.

On his throne, he heard his villagers,

And last but not least his loyal ministers.

When out of nowhere, the ground quaked,

The villagers cried and the ministers shaked.

The King was swallowed into the cracks, 

One of his guards jumped in with an axe.

The King is gone, the King is dead!

The day the cracks from below spread.