Ode to the Oil
An old dwarven drinking chant, often recited with mugs raised and noses wrinkled.
Down in the deeps where the Groan-Caps grow,
Where the earth hums low and the magma flows,
We brewed us a bottle of bubbling might—
And aye, it could blind ye in candlelight!
One sniff’ll curl yer beard in tight,
Two’ll send yer boots a-take to flight,
Three, ye’ll see yer granny's ghost—
Ask her what she hates the most!
“It’s the oil!” she’ll croak, “ye reekin’ lad!”
And slap ye clean with a mushroom pad.
But mix it in stew, or roast cave-hog—
And by the stone, ye’ll dance in fog!
The flavor’s fierce, the scent’s unholy,
Yet makes yer belly warm and jolly.
It clears the lungs, it cures the chill,
It lubes the axe, the cart, the quill!
So raise a flask to Ironmoss!
To Groan-Cap, Brine, and fungus sauce!
To oil that makes the miners cry—
And makes yer food near kiss the sky!
Often followed by the toast:
“May yer pan never stick, and yer nose forgive ye!”
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