Name:
Location: Shire of Trisel, Trimaris

I am in my late forties, a proud husband, father, and a bard. I am a book pedlar by trade and a bookman by vocation. I am a romantic, a realist, and a Believer. I like a good joke, and a bad one even better. I admire all ladies for the innate beauty that is in each one, but my heart is sworn to the fair and gentle Lady Lorelei, who has consented to share my life and my name.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Mammas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Fight Rapier

Mommas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Fight Rapier

Fencers aren’t easy to fight
Cause they’re hard to pin down.
They won’t stand still when you try to hit them,
They circle around.
They don’t wear full armor, they never get knighted,
Their tourneys are background affairs.
Though they fight with real steel
With dashing appeal,
The Royalty just doesn’t care.

Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to fight rapier.
Don’t let them wear trigger, or gorgets or masks.
Lock him in his bedroom if he even asks.
Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to fight rapier,
Cause they can’t fight for crown and the king puts them down,
And the heavies get all the best press.

Fencers like ruffles and feathers, and shirts made with laces,
Baggy short trousers and boots that come up to their knees.
Their garb’s “Lizabethan, but don’t make fun of them,
Or suggest their virility’s iffy.
Cause they’ll stab with their swords
until they get bored
And then shoot your with their RGBs.

Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to fight rapier.
Don’t let them have bucklers or daggers or cloaks,
Or speak in Italian like weird foreign folks.
Mommas, don’t let your babies grow up to fight rapier,
Though they fight like all heck,
But they get no respect,
Cause the stick-jocks get all the best press.

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