Post by Sir Black Fox on Aug 7, 2008 18:48:13 GMT -5
It's time to break out m'ole poem. . . written back in '04 and updated for '08:
"A Revel Without A Grove"
A Seusian poem of MDRF by Sir Black Fox
It’s 9:00 and you stand
and you wait,
you wait at the gate.
You’ve learned not to be late.
You know that it’s early,
it's an hour before,
the opening of Revel Grove,
a shire, adored.
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 "make merry."
The cannon then sounds.
The gates are now open,
sardine-like we shuffle.
Then into the arms of Stupina,
you might 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 your 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 the hour and a half past noon.
You walk through the shops,
and gaze through the doors.
At the leather, ceramics,
wood, pewter, and swords.
Wood chips and hay
cover the path at the faire.
And kicking them up
sends a sunlit cloud to the air.
You love this whole place,
with each nook and cranny.
From the desert Joust Arena,
to the Girls of O'Danny.
(Daisy, Dee-Dee, and Dani)
From the Chapel of St. George
and its mundane-ridden stocks,
To the agape-mouthed crowds
watching the adam’s apple of Johnny Fox.
Along comes mime Mimi,
on seven foot stilts.
. . . 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, Hilby's the thing,
You laugh and 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 crowds down below.
A break is what's 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 "Last Call" and get waste-ed.
As dusk starts to set,
and your tankard’s not empty.
Pub Sing rarely happens,
but we gather instinctly.
You gaze a bit tearilly,
as the lamps are soon lit.
And a large wench’s large corset
has just popped out a large. . . bit.
A hush then takes over,
as it get’s closer to seven.
As we remember those passed,
but more important: those livin.'
Our Royal King Henry,
gives his Royal good bye.
You met him at the gate,
and wish him "Ald Lang Syne."
The parking lot's full,
a carnival of brake lights you see.
But the cars are soon moving,
On 97. . . . you're FREE!
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 9:00 and you stand
and you wait,
you wait at the gate.
You’ve learned not to be late.
You know that it’s early,
it's an hour before,
the opening of Revel Grove,
a shire, adored.
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 "make merry."
The cannon then sounds.
The gates are now open,
sardine-like we shuffle.
Then into the arms of Stupina,
you might 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 your 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 the hour and a half past noon.
You walk through the shops,
and gaze through the doors.
At the leather, ceramics,
wood, pewter, and swords.
Wood chips and hay
cover the path at the faire.
And kicking them up
sends a sunlit cloud to the air.
You love this whole place,
with each nook and cranny.
From the desert Joust Arena,
to the Girls of O'Danny.
(Daisy, Dee-Dee, and Dani)
From the Chapel of St. George
and its mundane-ridden stocks,
To the agape-mouthed crowds
watching the adam’s apple of Johnny Fox.
Along comes mime Mimi,
on seven foot stilts.
. . . 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, Hilby's the thing,
You laugh and 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 crowds down below.
A break is what's 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 "Last Call" and get waste-ed.
As dusk starts to set,
and your tankard’s not empty.
Pub Sing rarely happens,
but we gather instinctly.
You gaze a bit tearilly,
as the lamps are soon lit.
And a large wench’s large corset
has just popped out a large. . . bit.
A hush then takes over,
as it get’s closer to seven.
As we remember those passed,
but more important: those livin.'
Our Royal King Henry,
gives his Royal good bye.
You met him at the gate,
and wish him "Ald Lang Syne."
The parking lot's full,
a carnival of brake lights you see.
But the cars are soon moving,
On 97. . . . you're FREE!
It’s a triumphant end,
to a glorious day.
And it’s best if it’s Maryland,
. . . the Renaissance Way.