A young man of the class “like the entire civil fleet” appeared on the stage. This was similar to all the Tolkienists I knew and a bit to Tolkienism as a cultural phenomenon. He started reading immediately, interrupting the host who tried to introduce him. It was a song. In a sense, it was literally a song that he read in a re-reader, which was guessed on the refrens, and on the fact that he read in the rhythm of his usual performance under the guitar.

Technically, the poem was a ballad. The wounded goat ran to the royal throne, collapsed, pulled the fox out of under the shirt and reports: the troops are defeated one after the other, the unborn of the winters and already four cities with unreadable names of Celtic sound are captured by the enemy. And the king – whether the government was in exile or in an alternative residence – is concerned:
Did the capital not fall?
Three times I am interested. Orthodox in our way.
When he asked this question for the third time, I couldn’t stand it and shouted out of the room:
Kathmandu is a double!

The contest was broken, we were asked, and we went on to drink. As if not interrupted.