Instead the bookish and the plain/were catered for by this fine game/From provincial schools across the land/came bowlcut teens in T-shirts bland/arriving keen to pits their minds/’gainst foes of faint and virtual kind.
Host Dungeon Master, brown of face/disposed t’ward garments sporting lace,/was Treguard Dunshelm, who spent his time/reciting tortured lines of rhyme/The kids would never dare to try it/His real name was HUGO MYATT.
One child, thinking to himself “Fuck it”/would then put on a giant bucket/and disappear from t’others’ view/materialising in studio 2/whereupon a computerised trial/would wax and wain for much a-while.
“Two steps to the left!” would cry the crew/while bucket-kid meandered through/stone-walled rooms oft’ filled with freaks/to whom only he had power to speak/”Life force low!” boomed Treguard whenever/the kids had to get their shit together/and pick up a jug or piece of fruit/all in order to re-boot/their chance of finding treasures rare/save leaving Anglia TV bare/of anything but the chance to say/”We’ll be on telly a week today!”
Best forgotten are the likes/of Pickle, Treguard’s twatty tyke/who arsed around in later years/when growing cancellation fears/resulted in a show enwrapped/in wanky gimmicks that were crap.
But millions still the show do treasure/for memories steeped in childhood pleasure/And sometimes quietly attest/a wish that they could play this quest.