The last of these Trollslaying sonnets isn’t a sonnet at all, though it is still about Slayers. Having done the previous two in one form, I thought I’d try something different and went back to a style that is reminiscent of the sort of thing you often get from Victorian poets. In common with the practice of that period, it is intended to be read aloud in your drawing room to entertain the family. However, it does not need accompaniment from the pianoforte, and the waving of arms is optional.

Not a Sonnet

As he fights the largest monsters with a deathsong on his lips
I might well forgive you thinking it’s his doom
But in fact it is the beasties who have really had their chips
And in bloody piles soon lie about the room

Whether fighting warty Trolls or Ogres, Dragons large or small
Or a something from the dark unholy realms
He is ever in the battle, just a tattoo on his chest
Not believing much in armour, shields or helms

One might ask oneself a question, and that question would be “Why?”
Is this stalwart Dwarf a victim of the moons?
No, he’s haunted by his honour and he’s sworn an oath to die
And though deeply in disgrace he ain’t no loon

Was it something very sordid? Was it really rather rude?
is the memory one that will not go away?
Well he’s looking at me strangely and his axe is rather huge
And I really think he doesn’t want to say

So he’ll shorten all the Trollkin in the mountains by a head
And he’ll trim the Giant’s haircut at the knees
And the great big ugly monsters had just better all watch out
Cos a Slayer’s on the prowl and he ain’t pleased