Down in Scrybesville, there were festivals for people who would write.

Their ideas in prose or poetry would rapidly take flight.

They would light a fire each Saturday on hillsides in the snow,

Sit around and offer readings of their works to make a show.

But a Straylian, who drank too much and lived up on the hill,

Had no time for art of spoken word; each time he took a swill.

He was quite the worst of Straylians, and broke his thinking cap.

So he took the soubriquet of 'Druncke', which fell straight in his lap.

Then one Saturday, his worn out brain once more began to dread

That approach of evening, when each Scrybe (who'd used his clever head

To create a piece of poetry or story) would perform

His accomplishments, while hill side bonfire kept the listeners warm.

Then the foggy vaguely functioning equipment of the mind

Of the Druncke soon birthed an awful plan, which simply wasn't kind.

He descended down the hillside, with a bag of nasty tricks,

And concealed himself behind the trees, and hid amongst the sticks.

Then the writers came at sundown, dropped their wood and struck a flame,

Formed a semi-circle, watching as the moon lit up the frame

Of the scenery. Then before the Leading Scrybe could then recite,

That mean Druncke tossed out a water bomb, which doused the bonfire's light.

Then he grabbed the Lead Scrybe quickly, and contained him in the sack,

Scurried up the hill to House of Druncke, and locked him in the shack.

"There'll be no more writing festivals, with Lead Scrybe gone," said Druncke,

"If they think they'll float their boats of words, they're going to find them sunk."

But the sweetest youngest writer down in Scrybesville (just a teen)

Awe-Bright Stephens, was a pleasant girl, whose mind was fresh and clean.

That interior impression (of the processes of thought)

In her brilliant mind could not forget the Lead Scrybe that she sought.

She was sure that he'd been kidnapped by the Druncke, to bring a close

To his voice, lest he inspire the fans of poetry and prose.

So she climbed the hill, and stood just near the Druncke's home to peruse

What was there; and then she filled the air with glowing kind reviews.

They were glowing oh so brightly, that they lit the Druncke's whole yard.

When he tried to grasp his grumpiness, he found the grasping hard,

As it slipped between his fingers, and was lost amidst the mount.

Awe-Bright's words had touched his heart at last, and made the Scrybes' works count.

In a world, where other Straylians were set to take their cues

From the Druncke, young Awe-Bright's influence held back such gruesome news.

So the Druncke released the Leading Scrybe, and both of them were joined

On the hill, by Awe-Bright Stevens. No more Scrybes would be purloined.

Then the festivals resumed, and made a positive repair

To the cranium atop the Druncke, who found the means to share

His own thoughts, by writing prose himself; no longer soused and vexed.

Awe-Bright's beam would carry verse from generation to the next.