oh yea! let us go then you & me
to a tavern & drink meade there
mumble through a manuscript of 
runes & pull on heavy chain mail

sharpen our swords (let the orcs
come now for we are ready here
in our makeshift campsite cloaks
compulsory tales of yore yea of

bravery (other words that sound 
like meade did ye drink the dregs
of it already (fool! meet me on a
barren hilltop for my daggers will 

want a word with you (an elvish 
word that may well be meade oh
yea huddle closer to the pathetic
little fire ye little people tried to

make from peat & strange rubber
(how that got here is anyone's 
guess my silhouette stalking the
compulsory full moon & mist yea

the usual atmospherics (beards 
see previous comment or shave 
with sword we'll tear chunks of 
mutton &/or venison we'll leave 

grease marks on platters & make
strangely powerful masticating
sounds with our rotting teeth oh
ye pixie lights of fate shine down

upon us here in a vengeful glade!
& our boot buckles jingling as we 
stamp our feet eh frostbite takes
another of our mounts we'll walk

on blistered soles & recite bawdy
hymns to battle & to our beards
except yours oh little ones whose
bum fluff insults the gods yea now

prepare to face your final armour
(geddon! yo lords of the ringtone!
compulsory burning torches & the
faint nauseous strains of mandolin

music (we shall meet de burgh &
live to tell others of his brilliance!
now form a circle let's defend our
little patch of slime & what is left 

of the meade & last night's feast 
but as for these pages of poetry 
well let's just skip them shall we?
nothing more boring than poorly 

written verse (except bad meade
drunken wizards treading on little 
people in the dark & elves whose
airs of superiority make me wretch

One comment

  1. Bob Geldof, on the other hand, wrote as early as 1987 (or so) that by then, if he’d been feeling particularly grumpy on the bus or summat, he ‘could have told a million people to fuck off’. But he wasn’t quite sure.

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