History of Sorts

In Limerick town, where the Shannon flows,
A shadowy tale of a dwarf arose.
Born under skies both gray and grim,
Whispers spoke of the curse in him.

His name was Mickey D, with eyes of coal,
A heart as dark as the midnight’s soul.
He walked with a limp, his gait askew,
Yet power surged where his malice grew.

In hidden caves near emerald hills,
He brewed his potions and honed his skills.
With twisted runes and chants arcane,
He summoned storms of endless rain.

Through cobbled streets, his laughter crept,
While townsfolk trembled, prayed, and wept.
Crops would wither, wells ran dry,
As crows took wing in a blood-red sky.

Legends tell of his silver lute,
A cursed device, both fair and brute.
Its melody sweet, but doom it bore,
For those who heard it would wake no more.

Yet Mickey D’s dark reign was not to last,
For heroes rose from Ireland’s past.
A blacksmith bold, with iron in hand,
Forged a blade to cleanse the land.

Through mist and bog, they tracked him down,
To his lair deep under Limerick town.
A battle fierce in the cavern’s gloom,
Shattered the still of the ancient tomb.

When dawn arose, the dwarf was gone,
But legends claim his spirit lives on.
They say he roams when the moon is high,
In Ireland’s mists, where shadows lie.

So heed this tale, and stay your course,
Avoid the hills where lurks the dwarf.
For Limerick’s curse still haunts the moor,
A darkened soul, forevermore.