Far across the placid moor the setting star fell fast.
Splabbid knew the night would come.
Alone, an Elecar abode.
So rode the hundred swift and swift,
And dust the ground upgave.
Time flowed slow beneath their carriers’ feet,
Yet on and on they rode.
For even most the least would do,
That death should yield its ground,
Though deep the very chasms dread
And all seemed lost.
“Drassid Snord!” their leader cried,
And up the cry they took.
“Eeee! Drassid Snord!” they cried
And did not dream to brook.
The Razzle dazzed
And the Dazzle razzed
And the bellied buckets drove.
The Snords, they blinked,
But the Razzids thinked,
So all the Drazzids throve.
Dressed up and feathery,
Dumb, tied down, but not very tethery,
Snooty old Snord
And its slimy young mate
Only slowed up
And sat down and ate,
While the Splabbid-led horde,
Each vassal and lord,
Just sabered and gored
Every Snord that had roared
And rendered quick victory his fate.
Beyond the placid moor, the crimson star had set.
Slow time and sand between the two
Were borrowed, sold, and bet.
And, “Snord!” The name was tossed.
And, “Snord!” The battle paid its cost,
And on their carriers’ backs they flew
And froze the Snord to frost.
“Lassid!” cried Young Leader One.
“Lassid!” cried the crowd and
Filled the night with laughter.
All next day
They gave to play
And triumphed ever after.