Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the pitch,
Not a halfling was stirring,
Not Bruno, nor Titch.

The coach was so angry,
A mean old dwarf,
Told them to play,
Like the lads from the north.

'But sir,' said Bruno,
Regaining his feet,
'We've no money for training,
Or food to eat'.

'You've signed a treeman,
who's niggled each game,
And play us against dwarves,
You must be insane!'

The dwarf just stared,
At the irritating git,
Pulled out an axe,
And that was it.

Poor Bruno lay bleeding,
Upon the dirt floor,
The windows, the ceiling,
Even the door!

The Apoth could not help,
Her work here was done,
And when she had tried,
She just rolled a one.

Titch said 'You beast!
You can't do that!'
'Oh yes,' Coach replied,
'Read the contract.'

'But what of his family,
His kids and his his wife?'
'Bring them all here,
And I'll sign them for life!'

'Now no more rations,
Until you win,
I've got receipts to be counting,
So let me begin!'

Now there is only so far,
You can push a fling,
You can punch him and throw him,
And make his ears ring.

But mess with his family,
His friends or his food,
Isn't just nasty,
It is plainly just rude!

So at Christmas dinner,
They weren't filled with remorse,
The dwarf was a bad coach,
But a great second course!