In the weird and wonderful galaxy of Edimor, Pancakemas is one of the most popular celebrations to be found. It originates on a grim marshy planet called Mogmire, invented by a small, delicate race of creatures called Snogs. The stories say that on Pancakemas Eve, every hovel and hut is visited by St.Crepeulas, a monstrous magical swamp troll, who leaves jugs full of pancake mixture for good Snogs, whilst eating all the naughty Snogs he can find. The following is the poem by Smellment Mirre that introduced this Mogmire tradition to the rest of the galaxy.
Twas the Night before Pancakemas
Twas the night before Pancakemas, all through the hut
No creature was gurning, not even a bog mutt.
The clay jugs were hung by the fireplace with care,
In hopes that St Crepeulas soon would be there.
The snoglings were nestled all snug in fur hinds,
While visions of sweet pancakes danced in their minds.
And mamma in her night rags, and I in my groar,
Had just settled our brains for a long solstice snore.
When out on the mire there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the murk to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I trudged like a lug,
Tore open the shutters like a monstrous thug.
The moon on the breast of the new-gathered smog
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the flatulent bog.
When my wondering eyes saw on the dirt roads
But a large mixing bowl, and eight fat Mire Toads.
With a gross old driver, with gait of an ape,
I knew in a moment it must be St Crepe.
More rapid than mud skips his toadies they came,
And he roared, and bellowed, and called them by name!
"Now, Rasher! Now, Fartcer! Now, Prattcer and Sixen!
On, Vomit! On, Putrid! On, Donna and Gitzen!
To the top of the latrine! The top of the wall!
Now hop away! Hop away! Hop away all!"
As damp moss that before the wild mirkbull storm fly,
When they meet with a dank hoof, flee to the sky.
So up to the hut-thatch the toadies they flew,
With the bowl mixture full, and St Crepeulas too.
And then, with a splodging, I heard on the roof
The slapping and slur of each slimy footh.
As I drew in my head, and was turning my rump,
Down chimney hole St Crepeulas came with a thump.
He was dressed in fur and rags, from head to his foot,
All tarnished with egg stains, milk splashes and flour soot.
A sack of mixture he had flung on his back,
He looked like a fishing sort, opening his lunch pack.
His red eyes-how they glowed! His dimples how sharp!
His cheeks like limp shrooms, nose like a dead carp!
His drool filled maw was drawn up like a bow,
And the hair on his chin was greasy as mire crow.
The stump of a cigar held tight in his fangs,
And the thick fumes it belched, roared forth with magic bangs.
He had a round face and a bulbous belly,
That shook when he scowled, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was flabby and plump, a miserable old troll,
I yelped when I saw him, fear taking its toll!
But with a dull grunt and a groan from his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the clay jugs, and called me a jerk.
So laying a fat finger upon his nose,
And giving a grunt, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his bowl, to his team gave a burp,
And away they all hopped like the wet marsh slug’s murp.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove o’er our troff,
"Merry Pancakemas all, and to all a sod off!"
Artwork once again provided by the talented Bethan Vann. If you would like to take a look at more of her work you can use the tags below.
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With that it's bye for now. I'll be back soon.
Jon
