The Dragon lies beneath the moor,
slumbering with content,
as Guardian it's had success,
repelling cavers bent,
on entering it's lair at last,
since decades of dispair,
to open up the voids below,
and seek the treasures there.
With dripp and bit, and shovel,
and buckets by the score,
the Dragons teeth are pulled right out,
and stacked upon the moor,
and each extraction yeilds more blood,
that's gathered when congealed,
yet powergel and Bosch perhaps,
this act may yet repeal.
So cast your thoughts and whims upon,
the Dragon of Pant Mawr,
for if we have our way this year,
he may not have the power,
to prevent the entry of the just,
and be defiled below,
to satisfy the diggers lust,
revealing wonders yet unknown.