Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Randome Poeme

Of Gyants and Knyghts,

and their terrible fights

We have strories enough in Romances,

Of Hercule’s Beam, and one ey’d Polipheme,

With Don Quixot’s attepts and mischances:

But I’ll tell you a tale, worth a Noggin of Ale

Of Combate was lately begun

Betwixt a brave Knyght, and a pitiful Wight

That out of th’ Arena did run.

I was t’other day, in a place as they say

Where Rangers and Hobbits assemble:

Where the fold do speak, not in Latin or Greek

O t’would make a poor Orc tremble!

For hither resort, a throng of each sort,

Some clad in olive or blue, some fattin,

And each Champion, and brave Guardian

Doth call for his Mead not in Latin.

But did you hear, their Elvish I fear,

You’d laugh till you’d burst your breeches;

To see with what state, they break Prissian’s pate

And yet do but scratch where it itches.

One talks, I suppose, of Ovid’s great Nose,

With a bridge as broad as a Bagginses

A third breaks his tooth, with cracking forsoothe

a precious found in his pocketses.

One stands on his hand, thus the Tavern keeps tab

To kick their heels up in the Air

Another I’ll beswore, doth crawl on all four

An lick up the dust with great care

The former man he cries up a Legend

Admireth brave Strider, Aragorn that is;

The one he crumps roots, and the other he moots,

And he’s a good Warriour, a fart though he is.

The one talks of News, the other of Stews,

A third of pick-pockets and Bears,

A fourth doth always curse Mordor, Shadows, and Bays

Great Thorin’s Hall markets he swears.

One loves Mathmaticks, the other Fanaticks,

Store of Mercury here to be found;

A third’s for a Lecture, a fourth a Conjecture,

A fifth for a farthing in the Pound.

One Quack doth pretend to foretell of an end,

Of the Shadow of Angmar’s last hour;

And dares to prefix the year fifty six

As the period of the Beast’s power.

The Minstrel is for canting the Hobbit for ranting,

With laughing as he eats second supper;

A fourth’s for a Fate, eight hours to last

But with a good Breakfast and supper.

The one bids aggro, upon Orc and Warg

And the rest of that comtemnable few

Crys up Brigand and Goblin, Dragon, Worm

As the Lore-Master that only speak true

Another’s for Sweet Lobelia, Genelas and the like

Brother Jeff and Mead mouth’d Burglar,

Who’s a license of late, to break the Shadow’s fate

And say that it is due to a Took.

Some are for Frodo, some are for Odo

And others do cry up the Bagginses,

A third is for Merry, a fourth if for Sherry

And a fifth for Pippin and do.

This tale at the Pony would never end

If all men kept full their tankard of Mead

However it must, it we want to proceed

And get enough gold for our Steed.

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