They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
And an oiled masked sinner blustered, "Let us slide down this pile of dust
to the writer of unreal numbers-- or no realer than they must."
To look for the benefactor who had jotted them down in his blog;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the thief guild list they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last who The Face had played.
The old zouave was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote rules for our expedition. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the face of hell;
For we're all of us fresh from the climbin', an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
"No, thank you, we don't want chimps, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A dungeon on flat-ground, well-lit please, or some kind of cakewalk of a fight?
We think that someone has fumbled, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we had nothing once, sir. Please, write in a fatted sow."
The poor little party departed, limping and lean from their trek.
And the HRTS of the benefactor grew hot with the love of SNEK
And he wrote for them wonderful dungeons that swept the GLOG like fire
Till the wretched souls of the gretchlings were scourged with the thing called desire.
They played in forgiving dungeons that were set in an Irish bog;
A cheque, for enough to level, to the last who the Face had played.