Along the city streets, and by
The avenues, the people fly;
All rushing, going God-knows-where,
Round Marble Arch, Trafalgar Square,
Yet in the midst of all this haste,
All those with ample time to waste,
Can find among the hustling host
A place invisible to most,
The house of all the living souls
‘Tis called The Palace of the Trolls.
Here lingering by the gate, I spied
The Princess of the Trolls inside.
She beckoned me and though I would
Have tarried outside, found I could
Not e’re resist the maiden’s call
To enter in her sacred hall.
She was a lass, quite simply dressed,
She was a blonde (you might have guessed).
I asked “What is it with the trolls
What do you do, what are your roles?
“Trolls are the very heart of wit,
Although their answers sound like ****.
I ask the dumbest questions yet
And ever stupid answers get
From punters greener than the grass
I make the suckers kiss my ***.
This is the kind of stuff I mean,
You’ll see I try to keep it clean
‘What lies due North above North Pole?
Next president to be Bob Dole?
And have you any gambling tips?
And why do oranges have pips?
And rat-a-tat ‘bout this and that
And why are pizzas always flat?
And still they answer every day
For all the suckers come my way.
So why do Yahoo Answers moan
And say the fault’s with us alone?
Just put the blame on simple souls
And never criticise the trolls.
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