A year ago, he reappeared in the Hall of Tunga-Horth,
from Nod he came, and no one saw, so his coming went ignored.
A year to plot and plan revenge, his anger kept him warm,
now free, to bring it all to pass, and unleash the storm.
Falsely accused and jailed was he, Jack the Skinhit swore,
that each and every Thumper would rue the day that they were born.
A single thought, a childhood tale, he clung to in his prison,
became his lone obsession.
With no other eyes to see, he scoured the Hall, and ransacked every book,
'til he found the Fairie Scrolls and sat to take a look.
And as another year did pass, he gathered all that he would need,
Tooth and root; wing and foot; and a sparrow he would bleed.
On the eve of Thumping Day, up Wicklow Mountain he did climb,
and in a fire he cast the lot and wove the spell to bind.
He laughed and cursed and shook his fists at all who slept below
and fell silent only when the sky began to snow.
If all the tales he had ever heard in quatrains dim were true,
a Troll there was no man could thump and his time was overdue
Banished by the Fairie Queen, Jack the Skinhit would unlock,
the doors that guard Elysium and unleash the Troll called Ragnarok!
