Inside the lonely mountain rests the lord,
shield-sized scales covered by a sea of gold.
Centuries he sleeps away on the hoard.
He used to fight when he was not so old.
A yellow eye snaps open, surveying
to ensure that all is as it once was.
Others were here once, but they died flaming.
Then the dragon slept, resting his large claws.
When the dragon awakes, he feels some guilt.
He questions if it was really worth it.
Yet, in time, his apathy was rebuilt.
No mere mortal was worth one of his wit.
That is what the demon kept telling him.
That statement was still the demon's false hymn.
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