The mulled winter Wine, quaffed from fluted funneled
flagon,
Deep ruby red, the lifeblood of the land´s brave
mighty dragon,
As dawn appears scarlet on the east´s fecund promising
horizon,
The sun comes scolding imbibing men with patriarchal derision,
The war has been won, the party over & the pretty
maiden wed,
Be off with you celebrants, time to rest your silly
weary heads,
The fatted lamb has been roasted, torn, devoured &
truly eaten,
The jousting & the duels, now over, for the winner
& the beaten,
The sore nimble dancing feet, now silenced in their
jittering- jig,
The last sipping of the bees mead, supped of the last
swaying swig,
The remnant´s velvet finery all lie forgotten, torn,
ripped & rent,
And the flirting fiery passions, now empty &
sorely tiredly spent,
The celebrations have ended & your party is now
truly clearly over,
It´s time to lay your heavy heads down, on the sober
cooling clover,
The last haunting whispering strands of the echoing lingering
lute,
Leave the poor drunken dizzy forest, exhausted &
gratefully mute,
The milky opal moon now slumbers, leaving the golden
sun on high,
And bids all you good gentlemen, good cheers, good
rest & goodbye.
No comments:
Post a Comment