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2,732 bytes added, 06:51, 31 October 2019
Fixing broken template
|latin=Poetastrum singularem
|image = Omnipoet man with skull.jpg
|class = Suffering artist
|habitat = Anywhere with a generally anguished, miserable atmosphere
|description = "The eponymous Omnipoet is, without a doubt, the most self-indulgent, self-important, self-published monstrosity ever to disgrace the pages of the ''Godville Times''." — ''Godville Times'' art critic
The '''Omnipoet''' (''Poetastrum singularem'') is a [[boss-monster]] found in Godville's [[dungeon]]s. Fuelled by artistic frustration and dramatic overacting, the Omnipoet was once human, long ago.
Once upon a time, as an unknown, aspiring artist, the Omnipoet wrote a single masterpiece of poetry, {{his or her}} best piece ever. In fact, the Omnipoet was certain that this was the greatest piece of poetry, but would pretended to be too humble to say so {{him or her}}self. Having polished this single poem to perfection, {{he or she}} arranged to publish it in the ''[[Godville Times]]''. Well, the poem was a complete failure. The Omnipoet became the laughing stock of Godville society; parlour rooms up and down the city burst into uproarious laughter at the mention of {{his or her}} name. Humiliated and ashamed, the Omnipoet fled the daylight, escaping into the dungeons where {{he or she}} swore to write a new poem great enough to show them all, or die trying. And even in that promise {{he or she}} failed. {{He or She}}'s done neither; to this day {{he or she}} lurks in the dark, attacking anyone who interrupts {{his or her}} writing, blaming the constant interruptions for {{his or her}} writers' block. As for the poem, the editors of the ''Godville Times'' were kind enough to supply a copy for historical preservation. {{pre|The Godvillemarillion beholders eye you know, Marie kill it before it spreads I shudder, angst-ridden, gazing at your three-day-old fries I sit and gaze at the ceiling overhead a little while later it began to snow and they took me away as I screamed "no!no!" ... she grips lovingly onto the brick that is her pillow. the gentle sound of the scissors: snip but chewing them up would be twice as nice and foetuses swirl loudly within the glass one lonely kitten forever eating the rotting mice begin to dance, and raise up your glass and staring through her, he said in the fiery spiral of a vortex called despair, as eggs will be eggs it is said ... love 'im to pieces, feed 'im in a high-chair on this salty, swampy, sumptuous eve. 'cause kicking my cat is not nice at all because last time the germ got caught on his sleeve and then they danced in the room of ball -- The Omnipoet}} {{navboxbosses}}

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