This must be kept from my fellow orcs.
But ever since I ate that book I tried to read, I burp up some poetic lines now and then. So in honour of that Shakespeare guy whom I unfortunately did not meet at the theater where he was supposed to find his love (and didn’t because I kind of destroyed the stage)… well, where was I? Oh, yes, poetry burps.
Here we go:
(Don’t ask me what it means. Poetry is supposed to be vague and interpretable)
What a piece of work is orc!
How useless in reason.
So very finite in faculty.
In colour, in fighting, how express and fearsome!
In action how like a barbarian.
In apprehension how like an amoeba.
The terror of the worlds.
The paragon of ignorance.
(I’m quite pleased with that one, actually. But still, my fellow orcs must never know)