De La Grande Bibliotheque de Tamriel
An elven poem lamenting the rise of mankind
Listen 'round, I've a warning to sound,
About an overgrown weed.
And, I don't mean to forebode, but this little ode,
Is a lesson you must heed.
Now, our story unfolds, upon a pitiful mold,
Made to thrive on rot.
This unsightly staph, was a trickster's last laugh,
Long after his battle was fought.
We called it the Sundering, in case you were wondering,
When the heavens dropped out of the sky.
They hit with a thud, and gave birth to the mud,
Making up this mortal sty.
It was a hell of a mess, but I digress,
My story's about the swine.
What took root in this land, were seeds called Man,
That sprung up like fungus from grime.
Their lives may be short, and lacking import,
But keep an eye to their blundering.
It's tempting to jest, about this simple pest,
Until you've seen their plundering.
For when Men bound, to the Doom Drum's sound,
You'll learn what the Corpse-God wrought.
Even Trinimac didn't know, with his final blow,
Just how badly he'd been caught.
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