I think that I shall never feast
On a poem as tasty as a slugbeast.

A slugbeast who tastes the very best
as a skewer of freshly-grilled breast;

A slugbeast living below ground all day,
Where on adventurers he doth prey;

A slugbeast that may draw you near
As you scream yet no one hears;

Upon whose bosom adventurers have lain;
Who intimately hugs them before they're slain.

Chefs like me can make a feast
Of creatures like the mighty slugbeast.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Lupar, in the year 819 AF.