The Massacre: A Poem

50 Cent bit his lip as he hoisted his sword
Preparing for the advancing, awful horde
Comprised of vicious beasts, orcs and trolls
Ogres, dragons, rats, and even gnolls
No fear in his eyes, just gangsta beats
Mithril armor around gangsta feets

The 36 Chambers, he had to defend
Even if dragonskin armor he must rend
He reached for the blade, the Sword of Sages
A magnificent blade for all of the ages
Fifty Cent, New York, represent
Fake buster-ass orcs need not repent

No reinforcements for him were now in sight
Lloyd Banks was resting in Jersey tonight
Young Buck was taming Unicorns in the east
Eminem was a day’s ride away, at least
An unexpected ally, that’s what he would need
His magics burned through orcskin, no easy deed

Suddenly, there was something, a familiar sound
Hyphy beats dropping quickly, flambosting around
50 Cent smiled and said, “There is hope today,”
”Came to my relief, Ghost Riders from the Bay.”
General E-40 cast lightning; it cracked with a pow
Ghost Riders scraped through as 40 yelled “Tadow!”

The beasts were beaten, 50 was badly injured
Obvious to him that this army was conjured
What powerful wizard could these beasts persuade
What ridiculous beats could he have made?
His mind rang, these answers he was not hearing
As the Warlock Nas appeared now in the clearing