mystiommer
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Wow this oil king figure must be super cool sexy and funny if only I could meet themMy submission! For Aberystwyth! In the style of Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes.
The Rift of the Oil King
The chairman cried, ‘we haven’t caved!
You lazy slobs, sit down, behave:
the drinking’s gone on long enough,
I know you’re made of better stuff,
we’ll band together, make a plan—
don’t make that face, I know we can—
we’ll venture out to hill and gorge,
and let’s find cave yet unexplored!’
So they gathered, beneath the moon
performing rituals in the gloom
where they listened for the sound
of the dormant god, underground
to whom they asked for generous aid
promising he’d be repaid,
and when he spoke, the air went cold
a voice rang clear, and this god told
the group about an ancient rift
created by tectonic shift.
He murmured where to go and dig,
what holes to gouge out, and how big,
to turn left at the helictites
and keep the torch on nice and bright.
They took this in, as dawn arrived,
watching pink colour stain the sky,
then suddenly, freed from this trance
scrambled together at this chance
that they’d been given by this thing,
this god, the spirit, the… Oil King.
They scrounged a bag and donned their kit
(hoping that their suits still fit),
trading wellies and sourcing slings
and rifling through the outdoor bins.
At last, faff done, the group marched forth,
crossed a river on their way north,
then found, below a grassy knoll,
the Oil King’s promised entrance hole.
The walls all glittered; calcite glowed;
somewhere far off, a streamway flowed;
with eager bounds they set the pace,
exploring the tremendous place.
But it was far, the caving tough:
soon members whined, ‘we’ve had enough!’
as, stumbling over rough terrain,
the group’s good mood came under strain.
The chairman hoped the rift was near
‘We have no choice but persevere!’
she said, though having doubts herself,
and worrying for one fresher’s health.
Another awful hour elapsed.
(During which some friends collapsed—
Not to worry, they’re still alive
A hip-flask’s sip had them revived.)
In the end they reached a hall
with a trapdoor in the wall.
Could this be the Oil King’s gift?
Was this long room the fabled rift?
What secrets had he he hid behind
this wooden hatch for them to find?
They ran to it and clambered through,
piling in, two by two, and then,
each cavers’ mouth fell open wide.
The group scarcely believed their eyes—
the god had tricked them! They now stood
in a building, on varnished wood;
the place was full, and people stared
at this muddy bunch, almost scared,
gripping pints in their gnarled old hands,
looking to where the barman stands.
This ‘rift’ of the Oil King
spat them out at their local inn!
‘Alright there lads?’ someone did sneer,
‘You look like you all need a beer.’
This Oil god’s legend soon spread wide.
Eyewitnesses all testified,
but no one since can find again
the entrance to the Oil King’s den.
And, I think, like this it might stay
until more drinkers lose their way
and proclaim that caving be
more of a priority.
But if you’re trying it, like them,
and go off searching for his den,
do not forget that this group took
an object many overlook.
Bring it too! It’s rather odd—
A tribute to this curious god
a sacred offering, a war spoil:
a little bottle of baby oil.