 |
|
| Squire Story |
| There is vision in the center, where stands the master. As he believes, I must perform the clean. He holds the strong arm, sheathed in burnished steel, I remember my place is not to scream. He alights his mighty roan stead, all of rolling muscle. I mount my ass laden with equipment. He charges forth with a canter, a song on manly lips. I follow with a muttered curse sent. He flashes in the still rising dawn, a bold adventure. I whisper to the saints to be done. He speaks as if God is a bosom friend and will deliver. I pray most fervently and non-won. He calls to me to be brave but prepare for the worst. I wonder if the helmet hurt his bees. He will call to me for his lance, when the time comes. I hope he can find me in the trees. For he has chosen himself to face the great Logiath, a battle dragon who eats his meat. And never mind the fire, or long claws, or big teeth or scales of armor for fifty-two feet. So what I have here is a spoiled nog-head with steel, who is minded to get par-roasted. I'll tie my ass to a sturdy oak for a quick getaway. When the fat in the fire is toasted. The fog is rolling heavy over the Notterdam ridges, home of Logiath in the caves, A winged apparition erupts from the murk roaring, and casts great gouts of flame. He turns in his armored splendor and gallops away, down the crumbling road, out of sight. I follow with my ass and all the clinking and clanking. Oh, the travails of me and my knight. � 2000 DPMcClellan |
 |
 |