Let me tell you of dragons, dragons living by the sea;
you can find them in fjords, breathing fire fervently.
If you sail in a sailboat, they will breathe upon your sail;
if they fly transatlantic, they will leave a clear contrail.
Dragons live in coastal caves right along the water line;
some are crocodile-like, others slither serpentine.
But they all have wings to fly ‘round the mountain and the moat;
they are fond of river mud clinging to their scaly coat.
Don’t ever tease a dragon--theirs is bitter temperament;
if they should speak against you, that is breath you would resent.
When you see a dragon come, nod your head or just stay shy;
chances are he’ll gloat a roar as he soars up in the sky.
There are lady dragons, too, but they don’t get out as much;
lady dragons pick a mate mostly by their sense of touch.
Dragon young come from an egg nurtured in a covert nest;
when they reach the age of one, their young flame is then expressed.
Once there was a dragon war fought above the Matterhorn;
Dragon speak lit up the sky, with all clans of dragon torn.
This is know in dragon lore as, “The Old Wyvern Event;”
that one time, so long ago, that the dragons still lament.
European dragons rule--Chinese dragons also reign;
dragons share a history from Beijing to shores of Spain.
Dragons live a long, long time, witnessing both peace and war;
when a dragon gets upset, he breathes fire all the more.
But a dragon often chills in a sylvan countryside,
or on sand beside the sea as the neap and ebb abide.
Often, when he does do this, he has fire-breathed enough;
so he’ll crouch and claw the sand, then unwind with one good puff.
[Rhythm: 14] (Lines: 28)
Writer’s Cramp; January 22, 2012
© Copyright 2012 Teargen (UN: teargen at Writing.Com).
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