Archivist note: This article is from an older recovered archive and might be obsolete or in need of updating.
Most recent revision is shown below, by Galactic Baroque
A tomte wound clocks in our city. 'Twas hard work, and dirty and gritty. But he labored in vain-- Got no milk for his pain-- And the rancor he felt wasn't pretty. He'd climbed all the clocktowers tall And wound every clock big and small. Since we gave him no milk, As is wont of his ilk, He vowed his revenge on us all. At election he stood to be mayor And he promised he'd always be fair, Though he knew just the same That revenge was his aim And the voters were quite unaware. The race was a close one I'm told. To the winner the city'd be sold. When the voting was done, It was clear he had won. "Now I'll drink all the milk I can hold!" Passing strange are the ways of the fey, For you know that a tomte would say That scotch whisky neat Isn't nearly as sweet As warm milk with a chaser of whey. While yet hailed as the man of the hour, He announced he would delegate power, And so our fair city Was run by committee While he hoarded the milk in his tower! The fruits of his victory he swilled By the gallon--and not even chilled! In addiction's enslavement He slept on the pavement Some feared the poor tomte'd been killed! No one knows what has made him recover, Whether prayers or the help of a lover. But of this I am sure, He has found his own cure, Moderation was his to discover. Now I passed him today in the square And he's looking quite sober, I'll swear. And the proof is, I reckon, It's his rez day (the second) And all that he wants is a chair.