The Buttery Song

by Greer Gilman, to the obvious tune... summer, 1978

We live at the Buttery, come to the Buttery
Where reveling never ends
For since we've go chaos we thought that we may as
Well have in a few of our friend.

We've dungeons and dragons and excellent flagons
We've war games and floor games and mead
Post revels and tourneys and rest from your journeys
And all that a traveler could need.

We've croquet and dances, we've swords and we've lances
We've saffron and mace for a stew.
We've lords and freebooters and several computers
And floor space for seventy-two.

Well that was our theory, but since we've grown weary
Of revelers six to a bed.
We've fewmets in closets and nameless deposits
That lurk in the box for the bread.

We've goats in the attic and bills like the Vatican
Berserkers and Vikings and Huns.
We've heralds by dozens and several cousins
Incurably mad from the puns.

An amateur warlock put spells on our door lock,
He's filled up our parlor with newts!
We've run out of flour, the drain of the shower
Is blocked by anonymous boots.

So don't call the Buttery, Don't come to Buttery,
You'll find that the drawbridge is up.
We're harried and frenzied but still if our friends need
Some room we can conjure it up.