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98

One dignity delays for all—
One mitred Afternoon—
None can avoid this purple—
None evade this Crown!

Coach, it insures, and footmen—
Chamber, and state, and throng—
Bells, also, in the village
As we ride grand along!

What dignified Attendants!
What service when we pause!
How loyally at parting
Their hundred hats they raise!

Her pomp surpassing ermine
When simple You, and I,
Present our meek escutheon
And claim the rank to die!
Olivia Kent May 2015
Taffeta dress.
Pink bows and ribbons,
Plaited elegantly through her shiny hair.
Shoes made of crystal glass.
Azure eyes that allure.
Princes and spinsters.
All vying for love.
In ball gowns.
Feel the frowns.
The pauper descends.
Out of place, amid friends.
Pretences of sisters who whisper and moan.
Two sisters and mother that clamour the throne.
They're trying for love.
Met on the staircase.
We really don't really care case.
Sisters on ladders of heels,as they stagger .
Their mouths filthy as bladders and bowels.
Nasty creatures.
Vile in lust.
Lustful greed.
Maternal demon seed.
Stepmother, toxically crumbles to dust.
Crone godmother.
A quick sip of milk.
Cinderella my lovely became but a sylph.
Dispelled stepmother and daughter's that cussed.
Transport to the princes ball.
In a pumpkin, should maybe have been made into a sickly sweet pie.
Lizards as footmen, stood fast on the back on the coach pulled by white mice.
The creatures were shocked.
By the changes, all the rearrangements.
Built up with Cinderella before, a creature comfort kind of rapport.
Be back by midnight said the fairy godmother, she knew he'd really grow to love her.
Midnight came midnight went.
A glorious evening only lent.
She tripped on the stair,
Nobody cared, except the prince and cute cinders.
She lost her shoe, in a hurry to flee.
Prince himself picked it up, unable to believe in lady luck was meant to be.
He searched his dominions far and wide, just to find his princess bride.
All the best things found in fairy tales.
What do I find?
Just slugs and snails.
Yep, you guessed it I'm a bit of a cynic.
(c)Livvi MMCV
Kara Rose Trojan Feb 2013
The brandy just as common
With the daughters
Reassuringly following to feed
The right howled lark
Into worn times.
Carry the jean size that you wore in high school
Since the advantage is not forgotten:
Drifting footmen believed manners
Learn prettier face,
But lean into the interrupted light
of another
gun-shooting hurricane on the television.
Indolent raisings are the explanation;
The snort of adolescent judgment dreadfully happens,
And we couldn’t free the dog’s role
Into the
Gently
Busily
Sulkily
… Oh how you’ve been.
The country ever has a lagging Spring,
  Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses--showers and sunshine bring,
  Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack,
And one by one the singing-birds come back.

Within the city's bounds the time of flowers
  Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day,
Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
  Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May,
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom--
And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then
  Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June,
That overhung with blossoms, through its glen,
  Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon,
And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.

For here are eyes that shame the violet,
  Or the dark drop that on the ***** lies,
And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set,
  The anemones by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.

And thick about those lovely temples lie
  Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled,
Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy,
  And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world;
Who curls of every glossy colour keepest,
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.

And well thou mayst--for Italy's brown maids
  Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed,
And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids,
  Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest;
But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.

Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve,
  To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give
  Such piles of curls as nature never knew.
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street,
  Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye
Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet
  Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by.
The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space,
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
  Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace,
Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn,--
  A step that speaks the spirit of the place,
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away
To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay.

Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care
  For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show
Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
  And last edition of the shape! Ah no,
These sights are for the earth and open sky,
And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.
166

I met a King this afternoon!
He had not on a Crown indeed,
A little Palmleaf Hat was all,
And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!

But sure I am he Ermine wore
Beneath his faded Jacket’s blue—
And sure I am, the crest he bore
Within that Jacket’s pocket too!

For ’twas too stately for an Earl—
A Marquis would not go so grand!
’Twas possibly a Czar petite—
A Pope, or something of that kind!

If I must tell you, of a Horse
My freckled Monarch held the rein—
Doubtless an estimable Beast,
But not at all disposed to run!

And such a wagon! While I live
Dare I presume to see
Another such a vehicle
As then transported me!

Two other ragged Princes
His royal state partook!
Doubtless the first excursion
These sovereigns ever took!

I question if the Royal Coach
Round which the Footmen wait
Has the significance, on high,
Of this Barefoot Estate!
"The Queen, the Queen,
The Queen does come forth," yells a girl from St. Anne's to the patrons in court.
The Queen's procession wraps around the lake right over the bridges and up to main gate.
The criers are ringing their bells.
"Make way, make way," yells Saint Blaise.
The next to come forth is the Kriegshunde of old yelling knockviter to those who would be bold.
Steel Bonnet came next, clinking and clanking like a rusty steel mess.
Then the footmen came forth with pikes so high that they slice through the trees with a fright.
The Mariners came shambling past, those sea-loving folk, you know the ones without anything that floats.
Then the flags of all companies converge in front of the nobles we so deserve.
As you see the drummers called Rolling Thunder precede the Queen's chair,
  and a patron yells, "Is that the Queen of the faire?"
Copyright 2017 Michael Robert Triska
I have been volunteering at the renaissance faire for 28 years.
Evangeline Ashe Jul 2015
Black is the house of the great unknown
it is the absence of all light
its footmen creep to bathe in secrets
stretching their limbs as evening turns to night.
Black is the harrier of the loneliest souls
it is a hardening of the heart
it is the fears buried deepest
After all, you can't see shadows for the dark.

Night is when the darkness reigns
cloaking the world in sable
Night is when the balance shifts
to keep the cosmos stable
Night is when red foxtrot trots
to caper in the quiet
Night is when life lights itself
Sparks of murmur and of fire
Night is when new hunters stir
with hunger in their orb-like eyes
Night is when sweet nightingale
serenades the owl wise
Night is when she holds a candle to the window
the better to carry on
Night is when he locks the door behind
the sooner to be gone
Night is when heroes fill the sky
and angels walk among the sleeping
Night is when the echoes of day
replay and take on deeper meaning
Night is when the mind is free
to wander wordless realms anew
Night is when black is not black
but a hundred shades of blue.
mark john junor Jun 2013
gather your faces and arm your footmen
there are challenges to the rule you lain down
with the lambs and wolves of debated thought
gather all your strength child
there is a hard road made of fragile glass
and my tread aint as light as when i was
the impressionable boy you lead astray
dont wish to shatter anyone's world
but somethings got to give like its freaking christmas baby
and its clear that you feel
like your the freakin princess gettin that pony
******* better fork that **** over but with a freakin quickness

like the folded page
creases run thru your hollow eye
as dust gathers like a skull in a window in the mind
intricate lines flow with the song
but these are not the words written there
these are the ones crafted in the hardbake
of hells only road
of pergatorys only path
you know that you allways leave places like this
heavy with profits
so dont hand me your sob stories
just whip out your cannon and spoon
lets get this over with
and no...sweetheart i believe i will pass on
a roll in the sheets with you

the river of my thought
leaks at the edge of my eye
and travels its own narrow mile
before it too comes to believe that she must
let to run free
cause there is nothing but desert
in this land of sea and sand
nothing but the faces of starving poets and there threadbare children
nothing but toys you purchased a week ago
in the basket for return get up the green for your poisons
your dope dreams killing my hope
Time eats of itself, a cables length or more
from itself gone on and
in its going on,hungry as it is,
time is gone.
These fleeting moments we enjoy are
employed as footmen at the feast
and wait upon the table.
Fate
accomplice to this scene,unable or
unwilling to intervene,watches on
until time being sated leaves upon
the stroke of twelve.
Chris Thomas Sep 2016
These streets singe my feet
Each cobblestone feels like burning coal
I duck in and out of cover
Trade my arms for a full night's rest
The morning comes like a westbound storm
I feel flayed and removed of life
Footmen gather like moths to a flame
To protect the illusion of a king and queen
Stark naked in my soul
I smudge dirt upon this solemn face
There's atrophy in the hearts of this dominion
But a coup d'état in these eyes of mine
Stay out of sight and wait
A new blood is running through my veins
By nightfall, the flags will be tattered
By tomorrow, the illusions will be clear
Tensei Oct 2020
Heaven clears its coward clouds
crows ascend and ravens caw
as a man unfazed and proud
greets aloud the Devil's maw

the land trembles at his spear
sunlight screaming on his shield
as his roar defeats the fear
and vibrates far into the field

the coming shadow of his foes
stretches further than he sees
so his gaze begins to glow
for he is where he's meant to be

a growl of courage and respect
rises from one hundred men
their lives ready to neglect
for those they'll never see again

the Earth quakes with endless herds
the burning sky begins to fall
his throat bulges its last words
and they bellow, "SHIELD WALL"

spears are laid their final hands
the heavy metal claps together
as brothers like their fathers stand
their mortal souls obtain forever.

In the veins where honor churns
the pulse of rage begins to tear
for the men who won't return
there is not a life to spare

and so it is

on a rock an ocean crashes
today men, tomorrow ashes
spear thrusts and shield smashes
for the lakes and for the grasses
for the name that never passes
and the star that always shines
their motherland, asleep behind
with the old and with the blind
with the children and the wives
the very womb that gave them lives

faces crack against their steel
footmen cry and captains kneel
a line of slaughter walled by zeal
brings each wave of slaves to heel
while the vultures praise their meal
the blade is swung, the pain ignored
necks are slit and skulls are gored
legs are worn and arms are sore
as fervor beats the chest's encore
like thunder drums the hum of war

blood with sweat in dust is bathed
no son is spared, no farewell bade
no grave is made, no boatman paid
a god was deaf when mothers prayed
alone they march the death parade
as the birds consume their spleens
all that's left is silent trees
who as tombs attend the scene
to absorb unto their gleam
what it's like to have been free

over yonder, in freedom somewhere
a daughter's silent cry implores
for her seesaw is still there
but its maker is no more.
Carmen in honorem - honor's song (Latin)
David Betten Oct 2016
CORTÉS
            But how to learn their Tower-of-Babel tongues?
            I think I have an inkling. Sandoval,
            Bring me that Díaz from the footmen’s ranks-
            A proud alumnus of this school of vice.                     Exit Sandoval.
            Young Sandoval shows promise of promotion,
            But, Alvarado, you’re my confidante,
            As well as in effect my deputy.
            We must concur about these Indians.
            They are not possibly the “natural slaves”
            Of which the pagan Aristotle spoke,
            And can be raised to all the dignity
            Of sons of Christ.

ALVARADO                         I’ll take your word.

CORTÉS                                                            Take God’s.

                                          Enter DÍAZ.

DÍAZ      God save you, captain! What mighty business of state pulls my
rare proficiencies away from tent-tying?

CORTÉS
            So Díaz,
            Twice now have you arrived in Cozumel
            With this old villain, who reveals to me,
            When last you pitched your tents, a year ago,
            Your fleet encountered awestruck Indians,
            Who nodded at the whiteness of your hides
            And uttered, “Castilán . . . Castilán.”
            Who came before, that they knew you by face?

DÍAZ
            Some say that eight years past, lost in the fog,
             A Spanish galleon shattered on these reefs.
            Her ribs discharged a dash of castaways
            That disappeared into these gloomy woods.

ALVARADO
            And thus within hide our interpreters.

DÍAZ
            So: Castellano . . . Castilán.

CORTÉS                                             Well done.
            Commune with these glad-handed Indians,
            And sleuth it out through means of pantomime
            If any of our cast-off countrymen
            Might swelter yet in this unsparing clime.                      Exit Díaz.

ALVARADO
            And as regards your noble savages?

CORTÉS
            I shall induct them to the host of Christ.
            I’ll give them scissors, candles, silver mirrors,
            With tops and kites to cheer their little ones.
            As your bombastic threats have scattered them,
            I must so kindly call to coax them back.

ALVARADO
            With prayer and kindness- Save us all! Kind words!

CORTÉS
            Speak now, or hold your peace. . .
From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com
There they go, blue masks, heavy boots
Spraying their guns in sparking suits
There they go, under the sun, as she creeps
Working alone as Italy sleeps
There they go, the front line, the protectors
Spraying away, the virus rejectors
There they go, quietly waking, in isolation
Slowly but surely saving their nation
There they go, up and down, street to street
No one to smile to and no one to greet
There they go, the workers, the foot men
When they’ve cleansed what happens then
There they go, the exterminators, the real fight
Hoping to make it happy and to make it right
There they go, calmly killing gestation
Hopefully lifting this strong Italian nation
Ken Pepiton Feb 20
Disclaimer: Any time wasted here is yours,
a day and a night to get almost right.
Redeemable at the ticket window.
----------------
Is who weary, me? No,
I have outrun the fleet of foot,
I am Liberty, my Phrygian cap is winged,
- the mind marks sequence not time
in tales
I do not serve Hermes, I am truths told,
truths sent from Wisdom, breaking yokes
of old, time before time, time of surviving,

vivaciously clinging to smoldering flax,
as fire forms from such unquenched bits,

flashes from some stemming child
on the spectrum, banging rocks in straw.

Times in mind, some sense says, go,
do it again.

---------------

So much, too much to mortally know,
we can ask and pay requisite attention
to learn well enough to know, there's

no secret knowledge, no undiscovered hows,
all working knowledge repeats itself, any how

may or may not be,
be much easy probably,
viel-leicht, wisdom may or may not make
mind
war with carnal weapons,
devices vicious
by dent
of the ancient daddy wound
up the side of Cain's head, look what you done,

Idiot good for nothing **** eater, be gone,
said the archetype singular golem father,
of the earth, the first father figure,
not a man, a man spark of life maker,
whose first son was destined to be
the first human being
of the sapien class, reared to live on life,
reared among the sisters, cuddled and loved,

BUT, yes, but, we know,
the first real man ran away with
three, some say seven, older sisters,

wanderers they
became outcast, yonder
toward where Babel rose up,
east of Eden,
in the land of Nod, perhaps, not
really a land named for Nod, a nobody
in the chronicles
of all our current assistant 'telligence
surmisers… worth of bringing to my bemused
at-tense, present, tense, tightent up, 'telligentia

attention, attention, attention, Jesus H. Christ,

respond… slough of despond, we got some

angry insisters about to ….

resist the system, the institutions, constituting
cheating by the takers who took stolen land,
from the thieves and gave it to the gove'ners

boy, howdy, we best be believin' be action,
be doin' done indeed, be lievin' my own leave
be done doin' indeed, being having my being,

in the Unknown God, some Cretan poet
was said to have acknowledged.

ProofPreg form, 15 year old.
Peak of the crack baby booshit, '93 or so,

Kid be thirty by now, and he ain't stupid,
broke, broke as hell, but he ain't stupid,

crack baby prophecy never happened, yo.
****'s legal, whole state, safe sit on a porch,

pack a pipe and make some peace,
with friends and neighbors, no loud music,
no loud nothin', make some peace,

find that old enough is enough, up speak,
say, hey truth, why do I believe lies, no,

say, hey truth, why do I say I know, when
you'ld know, were truth my judge, you'ld know.

Chances, odds of reality being imaginary, be slim,
to none, with certainty, yeah, safe bet, t'ish itsreal.

Enough to spark a thought.
Behold how great a fire, a wild idea allows.

---------------

If thou hast run with the footmen,
and they have wearied thee,
then how canst thou contend with horses?
and if in the land of peace,
wherein thou trustedst,
they wearied thee,
then how wilt thou do
in the swelling of Jordan?
--------------
Jeremiah, did you hear, was a bullfrog.

A minstrel innocent song, sung for the joy of laughing,

sung for the joy of joining in the chorus on and on.

--------------
sing in empty English cathedrals, sing
top forty or whatever it's called today,

Art testing, didah didah didah, Phrygian
Legion of the Libertines, defying deontology,

owing dues to no monstors men make up
when two or more agree to proposing

a scheme, whereby we set the frogs,
against the mice,

in an empty cathedral costing real money
to run, even empty, the bills continue,
who knows all the costs to maintain

a truly holy place aligned to ley lines, true

fields of forces felt for so long, so strong,
that
finally the cathedral formed from some will,

some will wanted the monument to a mind
let be in those, them that imagined such
evidence, aye, yes, such evidence
of worth, praise price paid
in labor and stone,

Marble… limestone, metamorphed,
to shine in the sun, as if art itself willed it become,

subjected to a process of time under pressure,

reform, become less alien, appear more normal,
rethink my willingness to die for a story,
reconsider sidereality as we see farther,

as we, in an awe formed
from minds combined,
like - right on
like an arena bowl shape concentration
of us,
at once being one thing, in the class of all things,

me and you, polysemic you all, you

effect the song, observant why now how come, you know

knowing all the adult classified unholy doings common,
among our kind, as we morph into the form we die in,
- slow
- sighshmmk-now coknow minds
- we made up with self controls, to slow think

knowledge, carnal knowledge is childish developmental
experiential guessings mirrored in our recent past
projected camera obscura like
onto bright silver screens, in cooled dark chambers
filled with witnesses to the projected story, as if
that's us,
we were there,
we were there when the spirit breathed
into an earthen man, animating him without,
mind you, you ready reader,
the art user or art itself,
with promethean science,
having imagined the worst,

the creator made all single mind
character traits in the Y
which in all good sense,
could not be allowed to self replicate,
alone,
there could have been no peace,
you can imagine on your own dime./

I'm re
alizing common algebraic matrices
as recipes for developing war minds,

Proud defenders of the story of us.

Every time a lie is rewarded, it reappears
in viral form attempting to become
a fully Disneyified Earthing from
now on,
it's instant, like a little leaven/life

builds up a head of inflammatory rhetoric,
and frankly, my dear…
goes unsaid, I do not give a worthless curse
I also take no chances, isshewisdamn
called patience first test,
{Because shiny white marble is a must,
otherwise what confused message are we sending}

animating the 'adam von 'adamah

without reproductive capability, inventor's
character trait tested for in Alchem 101,
ethical check
message to the technerds
on animating entertaining intelligence carriers,
no self replication, it must be a two key act.
--
So the father of the first human child
was intentionally not self replicable,
though he left scars, he had no…

no womb,
no nursing plumbing, call it what it was,
a ***** press
intended to run a thousand years
adapting future ideal physique
to task relative
to aggregate need
to adapt to warming,

a tool to make tools with, a Waldo.

SYTF- see, crazy WWJD POV, real time
I'll go rhythms, vibe recipes…
instructions for future eggs…

a man like creature, but not a natural born man,

who, as the story up

to now has held self evident,

can see eye to eye ourselves
in the other's pupils, thinking serious

we forms we form must first make friends,

then when I call you liar your hate trigger
is not loosed, SNAP
carnal mind war reflex,
unacknowledged will to ****,

--- most folk tied to angry minds too
tight, right, left loose we rattle to death.
---
Washboard roads, last travail in modern travel.
---
Some metaphors are all the phors old joy ghost
revival fires kept kindled, old hell fire brimstone,

yellow sulpher sunsets on a monstor religion,
with saints and dragons and riddles,
endless hours whiled through,

about a forest of only little trees
that offends big ones…
---------
as a particle in any we we amen to, we
must pass through all phazes
of life,
with each mind
we use, in our we form, our inherent spirit form,
whatsoever we agree we may, be,  being as
living words do not shrivel
into raison de etre skin on bones,

cherie mio, no, no, no

we rockin' old seed, slow grow grow
old as the hills, deep holler, deep
root to fruit on one long branch,

listen, allathat love talk, been done,
left some rotten lies about love,

to be unlearned like marble learns
to not be so flaky, like chalk, or graphite
slippery, edge of this Klein bottle class universe,
--
enter in, conceive a concept, a hold
to get holt of, and hang on, long time,

be over before you know it,
but you know, you'll believe it

when you see it and think it no stranger
than fiction idealizing us, demo-graphic,
ally outs in free, no ticket no tat
required as we be
reanimating awe
in defining secret holinesses

-- such as, say, pray tell

redeem the time, I'm prone to thinking,
redeeming means revaluing, once dones,

believing meanings
mean what your child thinks,

line by line, becoming more curious
than first scent tested if I'd known
as a child thinks
in its core,
so an old man can recall that why

call it to up speak, like Job,
to be reappraised, recall it
to be shined like a relic,

ja, j-object ion, dazemangimme
t'keep,
this little light of mine, own up, I
keeping it to read with, like Lincoln did,
I was told to be like Honest Abe, the character.

I'd have had all my answers ready at hand,
if this had been my judgement day, and you

were in the gallery,
admiring held thoughts, appraising worth
of riddles that work through puzzles
easily solved, once you know how things

revert to type for reuse.
Laughs remembered work like new.

Living words abused, in truth, such testify
to the living lies in histories of holy savior types.
George?
Who else could he have said chopped down
the cheery tree of all we have behaved
as if we understand, minds, minds
combined to do the work of many hands,

and yet ye multiply
as goods increase
the number
of those who consume them,

tell the moguls,
make more feel good movies,
'spect t' get whatcha got last time.

Indian giver religions, been there, done that,
so we say bd, been done, many easy ways to die,

and our kind, living word bits of this and that’s,

what we do, we tune
to your mean frequency,
when delving breathlessly
into your final will, as
why presents itself
in humble three point stance.

Beg pardon, mastermind, we've become disentwined,

whine, phinefrogging whine, when wine's dis-stilled
credence makes a joke
small voice, choice, croak,

break that yoke,
or carry on
so. I do on days that start slow and rise to vistas,
past all probable cause,

joy in the strength to think through the process,
of loosing all my mental mechanical logical connections,

and reinvigorating the word animating reader's window,

there, in the face of it, the eyes twinkle when it smiles.

Finds herself in the forms between clouds



What were you thinking, Grandpa?

-------------------
She, mother of wisdom,
First class epitome of mothers,

first commutable imbalance engine,
egg factory for long cold survival

and long cold return to the still seas
when marble began to be made
to clad temples wherever laws
were enforced and thieves slain,

order, order of the elders, inspect
the wares under lable as goods
of great worth in interesting times,

as doors open, and windows open,
and a mind we make up becomes

prover of the theory that animation
is imagining projected thought,
seeps through so slow,
slow as potassium leaches
through wood ash to make this window

this, detail uhd most definite, I can really
see, but, I can zoom
into full second coming type,

in the time it takes to swallow,
a tale and think, that's it.

---------------------------

It's been oh so long since we had an encore,

they say those twinkles in the eye are in true,
smiling face projections,

we fixit in Photoshop, all image editors dream
package, locked behind a learning curve for GIMP.
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April Nov 2020
Oh all ye travelers, hearken well,
this dreary night where shadows dwell
Forget your woes for now my friends
And hear now where my tale begins…

A land across the sea there was
In ages long ago
when dragons roamed the skies at will
and monsters walked below

And here a noble family dwelled
And nothing t’was they lacked
with many knights of stalwart heart
To guard them from attack

A laughing king, full fair and just
Set laws down from his throne
His lovely queen stood by his side
And made their house a home

And children fair, in numbers three
Ran dashing through their halls
And filled the castle’s stony walks
With joyous youthful calls

But woe befell their house in time
for such is true of all
when treachery did rear its head
within their royal hall

—————————————

One night when all the family slept
a knock was heard below
and through the glass there could be seen
a faint and ghostly glow

The moon was hidden well that night,
no fire burned without,
this light was not an earthy thing,  
of that there was no doubt

But no one saw this strange display
for all lay at their rest
and when at dawn the maids awoke they found they had a guest

a stranger sat outside their door,
a cloak drawn ‘round his form
and when they asked his business there
he spoke in tones forlorn:

“For many leagues I’ve walked by foot
and nary drink I’ve had
my throat is as the dessert dry
and in mere rags I’m clad”

The maids could see that this was true,
his voice was but a croak
a weakling child, scant in years
could fell him with a stroke

His clothing was bedraggled so
that places skin was bare
and all was grey and tattered rags
such no one could repair

he spoke again and begged the maids
that drink be brought to him
for surely else he would not live
and suffer death sore grim

In pity for this weakly man
who to their hearts did plead
the maids rushed back into the house
to fetch out honeyed mead

But as they left, a change occurred,
Though by none was it seen
The ragged man that once was there
was not as he had been

In that man’s place there stood a Fay
As tall and straight as trees
His hair of copper drifting ‘round
In chilly Autumn’s breeze

—————————————

Now I am sure you all must know
the tales of the fay,
those fairy folk who love to trick
and use us men as prey

Unbound by laws and moral codes
These Fay folk live apart
And those who’ve seen them all come back
Full strangely changed at heart

The Fay can be a flighty lot
Their moods like shifting clouds
One minute sunny, then the next
As cold as funeral shrouds

And here a member of that race
Stood waiting by their door
And on from hence their fates would be
Entwined for ever more

But in a blink the rags returned
The glamour strong and sure
And to the people’s human eyes
All things stayed as they were

When they came back they brought him in
To sit and drink and eat
And all the time suspected naught
Of who it was they’d meet

—————————————

They gathered ‘round in all good cheer
For they still knew him not,
And passed a merry time indeed
Un-wary of his plot

And after supper’s course had passed
With mead in heavy draughts
The stranger asked to entertain
With stories that he’d brought

They called together all the maids
And footmen of the house,
And even their liege-lord came down
With children and his spouse

They’d wrapped the stranger in a robe
And sat him by the fire,
And when he asked they brought to him
More mead and someone’s lyre

As he prepared to tell his tale
A hush fell o’er the hall
A strange expectant silence reigned
And cast them in it’s pall

And when he spoke no sound was heard,
Save for the stranger’s voice,
His tone as clear as piercing bells
On mornings filled with ice

He spoke of lands across the sea
Where wealth and magic rules
And then of dragons, fierce and strong
With hoards of gleaming jewels

But as he spoke a change occurred
Among the gathered throng
And any who were watching them
Would see
That something’s wrong

For few by few those listening
We’re drifting off to sleep
Their heads were tilting towards their chests,
In grips of slumbers deep

And even if someone had rung
A church bell in that hall
Nary a one would have awoke;
So deep was dreamland’s thrall

When all about were sleeping sound
The Fay rose from his chair
At long last free to carry out
The reason he was there

—————————————

He looked about the hall of forms
Slumped o’er in their chairs
And laughed in silence to himself
For fates that would be theirs

For one thing that they had not known,
Could not have understood
Was that he’d come to take their child
With him to Myrddin’s Wood

The girl he sought was loved full well
A princess of the land
A joy to all who heard her laugh
Or held her dainty hand

A child now no more than twelve
With many years to grow,
Who held a fate more perilous
Than anyone could know

She slept that hour across the hall
Surrounded by her kin
Unknowing of the danger posed
By one who they’d let in

The Fay walked forth across the floor
And stood there by her side
Gazing upon the silent girl
He had with magic plied

—————————————

He took her up into his arms
And wrapped her in a cloak
That had appeared from empty air
With chanted words he spoke

He turned away from all the folk
Who lay so still in sleep
They soon would wake, once he had left
No more in slumber’s keep

He whirled and left that silent room
Delighted in his heart
For everything would fall in place
Soon from this evening’s start

He left the castle through the doors
Of stoutest oak that stood
To keep invading armies out
And spare its people blood

Alas for them, no doors could stand
Before the wills of Fay
No earthly plan, though well devised,
Could keep their force at bay

Then Aethylon, so he was called,
A Fay lord in his right
Strode from the house and through the grounds
Into the chilly night

—————————————
#ballad #fairies #fantasy
The Bald Quartet is 4X balder than original member Robert Goulet
who yachted into my congested heart in waves of starboard fuel aid
that soaked to ignition the butler, 9 footmen & a meaty ***** maid.

— The End —