Muttering to himself as he purged himself of the offending foodstuffs, our errant pen-wielder sat himself beside an odd assortment of individuals and re-opened his tattered book, mercifully untarnished by the broadside of delicacies.
I stand with thee, a table 'mongst fables;
My larder stocked, yet still not sated.
A wizard, a hostess - these are but labels,
For seems to me, this meet was fated.
Ai! The rain dost threaten our friendly gather
(Not bad for me, I need the lather);
Yet stir thee not, oh! gentle drinkers,
For here we have some fine old thinkers;
See staff-holder here and here a narrator
I a poet - my name comes later
Such assorted guests here with us linger
Lo! wraiths, wights and there a singer!
Between this motley crowd of hues
We must deny the rain its blues
For 'tis no time to shelter this day
For in this glade a feast is laid!
We must have fires, and laugh all night!
Mayhaps some stories of mirth, and fright.
A speech or two shall, I'm sure, be made
In honour of those who ring this Glade;
For lest we all sin and forget,
We are the guests of those who let
Our scattered band of merry players
Through the woods, in all their layers,
To this most hallowed glen of burning...
See! E'en the Wight is turning!
Raising his glass, a toast! A toast!
To our fair hostess with the most!
Yet that's no glass, within his fist,
That shines so fair, sunlight kissed!
"Tis a dagger, don't you know it!
Lo! It comes hence, for our poet...
With that, the poet slumped to the ground, the Wight's fell blade embedded in his tunic. A great cheer rang up around the Glade and there was much laughter and happiness.
Some of the hobbits were crying, comforted by the elders; "Don't worry there, lad, the foul verse is ended! The Wight has saved us all!"
[ September 24, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
__________________
And all the rest is literature
|