Post by Sir Black Fox on Jul 28, 2006 13:29:34 GMT -5
I express it each year with this poem (written in 2004, updated in 2005 and again for 2006):
"A Revel Without A Grove"
A Seusian poem of MDRF
by Sir Black Fox
It's 9:30 and you stand
and you wait and you wait,
you wait at the gate,
for you've learned not to be late.
You know that it's early,
almost an hour before,
the opening of Revel Grove,
a village you adore.
For ten months you have waited,
right here in this spot.
You can tell by the looks,
and the smell. . oh, and the cot.
What would drive such a person
to enact such a plan?
"It's MDRF" you reply,
"You just can't understand."
The cast mounts the keep,
the show soon begins.
Here come the Royals,
It's King Henry again.
He stands and gives notice,
He yells out at the crowds.
He commands us to make merry,
The cannon then sounds.
The gates are now open,
sardine-like we shuffle.
Then into the arms of Stupina,
you huggle.
The atmosphere envelopes you,
like a comfortable quilt.
. . . and you just saw a wench,
with her hand up a kilt.
Ahhhh, the ale booths are open
and you've now a tankard of meade.
"It's 12 0'clock somewhere,"
You rationalize the need.
You're grabbed by a Pyrate,
Capt. Moone shows you some leg.
You blush and you stumble,
"umm. . . I need a Scotch Egg."
He gives you a wink
and waves you away.
RenFolks are incredible,
and your day has been made.
Another great fortune,
you're first in the line.
But you've emptied your tankard,
you're ready for wine.
With grape in your cup,
the royals you see.
They're meeting and greeting,
but you have to pee.
On to the porta-pots,
what luck you must have.
They're clean and they're spotless,
and don't smell quite too bad.
With a slam of plastic,
the door upon box.
You wash with some Wipey,
to keep away "pox."
You gather yourself,
and head to the crowd.
Everyone's friend is King Henry,
you share a hug after a bow.
With a smile you leave him,
but you'll see him again soon.
The schedule boasts of a play-royal,
at an hour and a half past noon.
You walk by the shops,
and gaze through the doors.
At the leather, ceramics,
wood, pewter, and swords.
Wood chips cover
the path at the faire
and kicking them up:
a sunlit cloud in the air.
You love this whole place,
and each nook and cranny.
From the goop-filled mudpit,
to the Girls of O'Danny.
(Daisy, Dee-Dee, and Dottie)
From the Chapel of St. George
and its mundane-ridden stocks,
To the agape-mouthed crowds
watching the adams apple of Johnny Fox.
Along comes mime Mimi,
on seven foot stilts.
and look there's more wenches,
with more hands up more kilts.
A small rodent, it hits you,
on the back of your head.
Emrys Fleet gives a laugh,
"Don't worry, she's dead."
By Three of the clock,
you're watching Squire Rosman walk cable.
Then you grab a smoked turkey leg,
a Renaissance Faire staple.
Ahhh Fight School's the thing,
You learn while you laugh.
It's an amazing display,
and an ale you now quaff.
Feeling quite chipper,
but not over the edge.
You take in some theatre,
Shakespeare's Skum from a ledge.
It's a vantage point,
across from the Globe,
Where you can see the whole stage
and the strolling crowds below.
A break was whats needed,
you stare at the folks.
Whether garbed or in street clothes,
there's smiles on most.
At a quarter-till-six,
you must with the haste be make-ed.
It's off to the White Hart,
for Pub Sing and get waste-ed.
"One for the company,
and one for my lass. . ."
You know all the words,
from the first to the last.
You gaze a bit tearilly,
as the lamps are soon lit.
but a large wench's large corset
has just popped out a large. . . uh. . . bit.
As dusk starts to settle,
and your tankard's now dry.
Although Pub Sing's not over,
"Last Call" has been cried.
A hush takes over,
as it get's closer to seven.
As we remember those passed,
like Bill Huttel in heaven.
Our Royal King Henry,
gives his Royal good bye.
Jack Rackham and Pyrates,
finish with Ald Lang Syne.
Nymblewyke breathes fire,
and the cannon booms more.
A bag-piped progress,
as we head for the door.
It's a triumphant end,
to a glorious day.
And it's best if it's Maryland,
. . . the Renaissance Way.
"A Revel Without A Grove"
A Seusian poem of MDRF
by Sir Black Fox
It's 9:30 and you stand
and you wait and you wait,
you wait at the gate,
for you've learned not to be late.
You know that it's early,
almost an hour before,
the opening of Revel Grove,
a village you adore.
For ten months you have waited,
right here in this spot.
You can tell by the looks,
and the smell. . oh, and the cot.
What would drive such a person
to enact such a plan?
"It's MDRF" you reply,
"You just can't understand."
The cast mounts the keep,
the show soon begins.
Here come the Royals,
It's King Henry again.
He stands and gives notice,
He yells out at the crowds.
He commands us to make merry,
The cannon then sounds.
The gates are now open,
sardine-like we shuffle.
Then into the arms of Stupina,
you huggle.
The atmosphere envelopes you,
like a comfortable quilt.
. . . and you just saw a wench,
with her hand up a kilt.
Ahhhh, the ale booths are open
and you've now a tankard of meade.
"It's 12 0'clock somewhere,"
You rationalize the need.
You're grabbed by a Pyrate,
Capt. Moone shows you some leg.
You blush and you stumble,
"umm. . . I need a Scotch Egg."
He gives you a wink
and waves you away.
RenFolks are incredible,
and your day has been made.
Another great fortune,
you're first in the line.
But you've emptied your tankard,
you're ready for wine.
With grape in your cup,
the royals you see.
They're meeting and greeting,
but you have to pee.
On to the porta-pots,
what luck you must have.
They're clean and they're spotless,
and don't smell quite too bad.
With a slam of plastic,
the door upon box.
You wash with some Wipey,
to keep away "pox."
You gather yourself,
and head to the crowd.
Everyone's friend is King Henry,
you share a hug after a bow.
With a smile you leave him,
but you'll see him again soon.
The schedule boasts of a play-royal,
at an hour and a half past noon.
You walk by the shops,
and gaze through the doors.
At the leather, ceramics,
wood, pewter, and swords.
Wood chips cover
the path at the faire
and kicking them up:
a sunlit cloud in the air.
You love this whole place,
and each nook and cranny.
From the goop-filled mudpit,
to the Girls of O'Danny.
(Daisy, Dee-Dee, and Dottie)
From the Chapel of St. George
and its mundane-ridden stocks,
To the agape-mouthed crowds
watching the adams apple of Johnny Fox.
Along comes mime Mimi,
on seven foot stilts.
and look there's more wenches,
with more hands up more kilts.
A small rodent, it hits you,
on the back of your head.
Emrys Fleet gives a laugh,
"Don't worry, she's dead."
By Three of the clock,
you're watching Squire Rosman walk cable.
Then you grab a smoked turkey leg,
a Renaissance Faire staple.
Ahhh Fight School's the thing,
You learn while you laugh.
It's an amazing display,
and an ale you now quaff.
Feeling quite chipper,
but not over the edge.
You take in some theatre,
Shakespeare's Skum from a ledge.
It's a vantage point,
across from the Globe,
Where you can see the whole stage
and the strolling crowds below.
A break was whats needed,
you stare at the folks.
Whether garbed or in street clothes,
there's smiles on most.
At a quarter-till-six,
you must with the haste be make-ed.
It's off to the White Hart,
for Pub Sing and get waste-ed.
"One for the company,
and one for my lass. . ."
You know all the words,
from the first to the last.
You gaze a bit tearilly,
as the lamps are soon lit.
but a large wench's large corset
has just popped out a large. . . uh. . . bit.
As dusk starts to settle,
and your tankard's now dry.
Although Pub Sing's not over,
"Last Call" has been cried.
A hush takes over,
as it get's closer to seven.
As we remember those passed,
like Bill Huttel in heaven.
Our Royal King Henry,
gives his Royal good bye.
Jack Rackham and Pyrates,
finish with Ald Lang Syne.
Nymblewyke breathes fire,
and the cannon booms more.
A bag-piped progress,
as we head for the door.
It's a triumphant end,
to a glorious day.
And it's best if it's Maryland,
. . . the Renaissance Way.