Once upon a time.
In the midst of the land of love,
Where the grass was greener and trees oh so lovely.
There lived a king of forty three.
Thats a plenty whores had he!
Now the king was wise but not so very charming.
He had a fill of gold and spice and nearly almost everything nice.
He ruled a land of people and art, where no one cries though very few laugh!
A kingdom of strength, money and might had one big problem one Sunday night. See, beneath the grass and bricks and sand, lived a horde of rodents and lice. The more the people ate the more the rats rejoiced. They grew fatter and fatter not a worry of choice.
Then the rats, one fine day, decided that they no longer wanted to live in the land. They knew that they needed to live on it! So thats what they did. They ran out of the sewers, the gutters, the bakeries, the cafes, the boardwalk and the harbors. They ran and they ran and they ran. In the cover of the night upon the vestiges of the moon, the rats and rodents proudly took over the land of rivers.
This was most upsetting to the king of forty three.
Oh so upsetting. His land of monarchs and culture was defilled by mere.. rats? Oh the shame. Oh the Horror! So tried the King did, for a way to rid this new evil.
He searched high and he searched low.
He searched the seas and even in the trees.
He burnt them and ground them, he shot them and caught them.
But there was just so many..
"Given up have we"
The voice rang clear.
The king was stunned in his very own lair!
"who be thee sir? and where is your voice?"
Rang out the King.
Then he saw him. The Hero of our story. But no further from a warrior could he be. He was tall and frail with a hint of war. With scars and stubble on his face and on his body so much more! He was dressed in dull, of blacks and browns and green. He wore a cloak so a like the rags of death himself. Yet he was charming and in a rather serpentine way, Handsome, the king noted. (yes, his whores too!)
The king knew that at one glance that he was not gazing upon a warrior, mage, or sorcerer; for our hero carried neither a sword or staff nor an orb or globe. No.
Instead, at his hip it hung.
A thing so simple yet so special.
A long slender shaft of pewter and black.
It had holes.
It had lots of tiny holes.
The King had heard of these things.
They were the stuff of angels and the swine of demons.
They were the mead of poets and the music in songs.
For at his hip, our hero hung a pipe.
A long slender pipe.
