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Verse 1
Oh, the Fighter saw a castle wall, and said, “I’ll scale it quick!”
He spat upon his calloused palms and grabbed a jutting brick.
He hauled himself up three whole feet, then gravity said, “Nay!”
His greaves came off, his pants came down, his dignity gave way.
Verse 2
The Cleric knelt beside a lad with but a scraped-up knee,
And prayed to mighty Pelor for a gentle remedy.
But lo! She flubbed the holy words, the light turned sickly green—
The boy now has three extra thumbs and smells of kerosene.
Verse 3
The Rogue approached a treasure chest with pick and nimble hand,
“I’ve cracked a thousand locks,” he said, “the finest in the land!”
He jammed the pick, he snapped it clean, the trap went off with glee—
Now half his eyebrow’s on the wall, the other’s in a tree.
Verse 4
The Wizard found an ancient scroll of knowledge long forgot,
He squinted at the runes and said, “I’ve definitely got this lot.”
He butchered every syllable, the scroll began to hiss—
It turned his spellbook into frogs. The frogs are also pissed.
(CHORUS — everybody now!)
Oh, a ONE! A ONE! A natural, critical ONE!
The dice gods laugh, the DM grins, our heroes come undone!
Roll a twenty if you dare — roll a one and say a prayer —
For the bard will sing your failure ’til the rising of the sun!
Verse 5
The battle joined! The Fighter cried, “I’ll cleave this beast in twain!”
He swung his mighty greatsword ’round with every ounce of main.
It flew right from his sweaty grip, it sailed across the fray—
It lodged inside the Cleric’s shield. She has notes for him today.
Verse 6
The Cleric raised her holy mace to smite an orcish brute,
She called on sacred fire — and set ablaze her priestly suit.
She’s running ’round the battlefield, a shrieking, smoking pyre,
Still trying to remember which god handles “stop, drop, fire.”
Verse 7
The Rogue crept up behind the foe for one sweet sneaky strike,
He raised his dagger, held his breath, and lunged in just the like—
He tripped upon his cloak’s own hem, impaled his own left boot,
The foe just turned and stared at him. “…D’you need a healer, little guy?”
Verse 8
The Wizard shouted “FIREBALL!” and flung his arms up high,
A glorious sphere of roaring flame went blazing through the sky —
It curved, it turned, it boomeranged, it came back ’round with flair,
And now the party’s eyebrows match the Rogue’s — which is to say, not there.
(FINAL CHORUS — slower, with feeling)
Oh, a ONE! A ONE! A natural, critical ONE!
Our Fighter’s bare, our Cleric’s hair is smoldering and done,
The Rogue has stabbed his only shoe, the Wizard’s spells are through —
But we’ll buy another round and roll again at dawn, we few!
So here’s to every hero whose heroic deeds went wrong,
Who rolled the dreaded natural one and ended up in song!
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