Rawrr. Oh, that isn’t nearly loud enough. Ahem . . .
RAWRRRR. Ahem ahem. That’s rough on the throat.
My windpipe is sore from practicing breathing flame.
Listen, I’m a dragon, yes, but jeez, I’m only thirteen.
A teenage dragon, I guess you’d say. I’m supposed
to learn to be fearsome, scare ladies and knights.
My master, the one and only Smaug, is nauseated
with me. (He said “nauseous” but I know that’s wrong.)
Smaug, in sneering disgust, told me he’s indisposed
and wants me to go away. He will see me no longer
till I can roar properly. I’ve already failed hoarding.
“Roar with verve and fire like the Romanian Longhorn
you are!” So I try and try. On learning how to hoard,
I didn’t see the point. I’d rather give gold to the poor.
They need it more than I do, right? So I sent out word
my meager practice pile of coins and gems was up for
grabs. Humans came in hordes. Smaug’s in a slow burn.
And I’m grounded. Still roaring. Rawrr. Sigh. Rawrr.