Part 1: Beginnings

In the ol' land of Nottingbury,
Behind the shackles of brick,
I was proud to be invited,
Inside of a small cottage.

The rocks were worn by fury,
Invited by the endless trick,
And forever, by God, blighted,
These were the foundation of the cottage.

Outside of the cottage was a lorry,
Which seemed tired and sick,
It had, however, been delighted,
By a something that seemed like beautiful frottage.

Inside of the cottage was a flurry,
Of things like pottery, illumed by a candlestick,
Aged with a certain plighted,
Feeling of being stuck in pottage.

And then, a man wearing a furry,
Cold pelt that was trying to seem lunatic,
This very man looked at me and recited,
The tales of his missions working for agiotage.