A Drunken Cave Feast of Chaos, Fire & Ale | Medieval Fantasy Tavern Song

Описание: Deep beneath the mountains, where firelight flickers on stone and drums echo against the cave walls, the goblins gather.
Barrels burst open, rhythm is beaten from stone and wood, and the night slowly turns from celebration into uncontrollable chaos.

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Five barrels slammed against the stone,
Every goblin felt it in the bone.
The chef who cooked the Soup of Doom
Brewed a brand new ale — the night goes boom.

The barrels cracked — the stench exploded,
The cave inhaled, then nearly folded.
Bats fled screaming, hit the walls,
Rats chewed stone in panicked calls.

The first full mug was crowned for the king,
One deep gulp — no breathing.
He raised the cup up to the sky,
A roaring cheer — and chaos fly!

Pour it again — I didn’t catch the taste,
Fish or rust all over my face.
Pour it again — I’ll know this time,
I don’t know what it is, but the mood’s divine!

What it’s brewed from — no one knows,
Swamp-born flavor, thick and close.
Rotten berries, curdled milk,
Sticky, wild, disgusting silk.

Maybe elf-moon wine, boiled too long,
Looted on some ancient run.
Maybe dwarf ale, stolen twice,
Mixed with spices… very nice.

Pour it again — the flavor runs,
Hot and slimy, alive on tongues.
Elven? Dwarven? Swamp or spell?
No clue at all — but it lifts us well!

Giant rats spin on iron spits,
Grease hits fire — nobody quits.
The king breaks out into a dance,
The floor survives — by pure chance.

Knives are flying at apples high,
On a goblin’s head — don’t blink, don’t cry.
Some dance in rhythm, some just fight,
Stuff keeps flying left and right.

Pour it again — taste doesn’t matter,
Feels like slugs ran down my throat.
Pour it again — then back to blows,
No clue the taste, but the madness grows!

Ten brave goblins shout it’s time,
To raid an elven town tonight.
They gear up fast — but plans go wrong,
Someone shares the ale with wargs before long.

The wargs feel sick, they drop and sway,
No one’s riding anywhere today.
Five barrels empty — how, when, where?
No one knows — but no one cares.

Drums are beaten on hollow casks,
Rhythm born from stupid acts.

Pour it again — let it be strange!
Pour it again — while legs still stand!
This ale’s not meant to be understood,
It’s meant to be drunk — and that’s just good!

The cave reeks strong of ale and pride,
The fire burns low, not one stood upright.
Twisted bodies, piles of snore,
Best goblin ale they ever poured.

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