I don’t even know who to credit for this. It first appeared way back when the internet was just a babe, in a txt format and seems since to have disappeared. I put it up here, not in a claim of authoriship, but as a tribute to the author to bring it to a new audience. If anyone does know the origins of this, I’d be pleased to hear them.
Twenty kobolds stood together, gathered in a field.
The mighty Fighter saw them there and dropped his magic shield.
A plus five long sword in each hand, plate mail shiny bright.
He confronted all the kobolds, thinking slaughter, not a fight.
The Fighter is an impressive sight, some kobolds seek to flee.
But the kobold chief, in a commanding tone, barks, “Kobolds, follow me!”
And so the score of kobolds charge towards their fearsome foe.
The Fighter calculates their exp. and waits to fell them all.
The DM merely smiles at him, and rolls a single die.
The result was only seven, but “You go down beneath the tide.”
“What?!” The Fighter yells, outraged, “They need a twenty to hit me.
They’re armed with shitty swords and knives, there’s no way that this could be!”
“Kobolds are small,” the DM replies. “So all of them do their stuff.
Since they’ve only teamed to overbear, lucky seven is enough.”
“Big deal!” Is the fighter’s only retort. “I unleash my Swords of Doom.”
“I’m afraid,” The DM replies to him, “you no longer have the room.”
“The kobolds have you grappled now. Your weapons are too large to bear,
If you wish to fight back at all. You’ll have to drop them here.”
“Fine!” He cries in an angry huff. “I’ll punch them in the face!”
“Your one attack hits,” The DM informs. “But another quickly takes its place.”
The kobolds call for surrender then, or they’ll have him for their meal.
The Fighter tells them where to go, and swears at them with zeal.
“They can not pierce my armored skin,” The Fighter cries in a fit.
“It says in the rules,” the DM replies. “‘Held opponent’ equals automatic hit.”
“Half of them now hold you down, half now use their knives.
You take twenty points of damage. Are you sure resisting’s wise?”
The Fighter gnashed his teeth in rage. “My strength’s eighteen double zero!
I’ll throw the half off with a mighty heave. They’ll see why I’m the hero!”
The DM, a fair and impartial soul, says, “Fine, your will be done.
Just roll the die, you want low.” (‘Course, the Fighter rolls a one.)
“Ha!” He cries, as kobolds fly. “Now the tides have turned.
I hack and slash and chop and cleave, and dash and crash and burn!”
“With what?” The DM says concerned. “Both swords!” The Fighter vents.
“The ones you dropped?” The DM says. “You wonder where they went.”
“Then I pull out my Two-Handed Sword of Instant Vorpal Death.
It’s right here in my other pocket, I’m sure I mentioned it.”
“OK” Sighs the DM. “You draw your sword. But the kobolds are quite fast.
They all jump on you once again until down you go, at last.”
And thus the melee continued on until the Fighter fell.
His mail still shining brightly, his swords still sharp as hell.
Of the kobolds, all were well, a few nursed nicks and scrapes.
And in the end, they had a feast, with the Fighter on their plates.