The tavern of a thousand dung

Crooked bearded men in dusty old hats
Dreaming the tavern of a thousand dung,
Where in a corner alone with her cats
A witch tells the tale of love as it sprung,

Where Dwarves come at night longing for respite
From the mountain's mines, from coal blackened lungs,
Where Trolls hurriedly, to escape the light,
Climb down the cellar on old weakened rungs.

Dragons at it's doors and hoards of dark bats
Waiting for breakfast, for heroes unsung,
And there in thick clouds mosquitoes and gnats
Devouring the flesh of those it has stung.

When old knights settle, tired from the fights,
For the library where past coats are hung,
Where old men sleep amongst books dust and mites,
They dream the tavern of a thousand dung.