Howdy, penniless barfies who have o’erdrank,
You’re all out of money, and there’s plates in the sink,
That I’d have y’all scrub—as well as the mugs,
Because I don’t like no broke folks in my pub.
But for you, on this evening, there’s great opportunity,
To avoid all those bubbles and help the community.
You see my friend here, the one shaped like a stone ring,
He has also had, more than five, eight or nine drinks,
Though, unlike you, he has the means to pay,
He’s round portly fellow, we all call the DoomGate.
And though he might seem a bit light in the middle,
The stones in the ring start to bling and to fiddle,
And in a few moments he will form a portal,
To a plane home to creatures demonic, immortal,
And I know you are keen to pay off your tabs,
So if the four of y’all could hop between his slabs,
With weapons a’ready and magicks at hand,
you could stave off the evils while my inn yet withstands,
another night yet of some ungodly drinking
where patrons stave off fleeting moments of thinking.
Does that sound fair to you, my pot-scrubbing crew,
Could a rag or a sword each of you wield more true?
We can all call it even, as soon as you’re done,
My poor Scrubbing Group, my Doomgate, S.G. ones.