Sol the Troll

A Revolting Rhyme

 

Some rhymes are good, some rhymes are bad,

and some are happy, some are sad;

some rhymes are witty, dry, and droll;

and this short rhyme’s about a troll.

 

His name was Solomon, and he

was not as nice as you and me –

he lived a grumpy life, alone,

beneath a bridge made out of stone.

His face was snarling, full of hate,

his eyes were large as dinner plates,

his hair was lank and dank with grot,

his nose quite small, but caked in snot.

His gnashers were a fearful sight

(he filed them pointy every night);

his skin was rough and tough like leather,

his chest was barrel-wide,  however ­–

his waist and tum were so minute,

despite the fluff, you’d think them cute.

For Sol was cursed with tiny belly

(well that, plus he was awful smelly) –

his stomach was so miniscule

that Solly struggled, as a rule,

to keep enough nutrition in it,

so Sol was hungry every minute.

 

One day, when he was picking over

the bones of some poor dog named Rover,

our hero/villain (what you will)

espied atop of yonder hill

a goat come trotting down the ridge

and make a beeline for his bridge!

A joyous Sol leapt out and cried,

“Drakdrak! Othangu! Gikkenschneid!”

which means (translated from the Troll)

“Ye Gods! I am a blessed soul!

O Fortune bounteous, ’tis thee

I thank, bestowing lunch on me!”

(For Trollish speech, though quite impassioned,

in English sounds a mite old-fashioned.)

“Come meet thy doom, young goat!” Sol cried,

“I’ll eat your elbows, gently fried!

I’ll eat your gizzards, lightly seasoned–”

 

“You could do that,” the sly goat reasoned,

“I’m so, so small – of course you could!

The question is though: if you should?

See, I’m the third of three goat brothers,

and I’m much slimmer than the others!

Yes, I’m all skin and bone – no doubt! –

the other two are fat and stout:

they’re both back up the road a bit,

why not eat them, and let me split?”

 

With tiny tear in massive eye,

a shocked Sol whispered, in a sigh,

“Betray your brothers! Oh my word!

Why, that’s the vilest thing I’ve heard!

You’d serve me up your closest kin,

and just to save your scraggy skin?

You must be crazy, must be mad,

when even trolls can think you’re bad!

Have you no loyalty or shame?

Well, I’ll not play your twisted game –

a lonely troll like me would kill

to have some brothers… So I will!

Because of what you tried to do,

I’m going to eat all three of you!”

 

And so he did – the thin one first,

all wrapped in sliced-up pepperwurst;

the second goat was somewhat fatter –

Sol ate him fried in ale and batter;

the third – despite humongous size –

was gobbled down with curly fries

(well, all except a leg for later,

left warming on his radiator).

But after goat, and chips, and beer,

Sol’s tiny stomach felt quite queer:

it rumbled, grumbled, made a sorta

strange noise, like farting underwater.

It swelled and stretched – Sol feared the worst –

and with a splat! his stomach burst.

 

The chips and sausage filled the river,

the bridge was sprayed with Sol’s own liver;

his legs just wobbled to and fro,

as bits of Solly fell like snow.

His eyeballs sank a passing boat –

and all around was stinking goat.

Yes, so much goat, that to this day,

they call it “Goaty Goatplace Way”.

 

And there I’ll end this little rhyme,

(the cast’s all dead – we’re out of time);

The tale of Sol, so sad and smelly,

whose eyes were bigger than his belly;

a lonely troll, like many others,

who wished that he’d been born with brothers.

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