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.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Toomb Tabard

Beware the prince
Who is all image and surface,
But with no grounding depth;
Who is all resume', and no performance;
Who is always restless for the next title,
The next accolade
Before the luster is even off the last.
Beware the man who has theories,
But no experience,
Credentials, but no accomplishments;
Who has learned all his answers
In the sheltered halls of academe,
And has never felt the hard trials;
Who has never contemplated failure
With real consequences.
Place no trust in the ruler
Who lives and dies
By his cult of personality;
For whom everything is about him,
And will hear no criticism.
He is an uncertain rood;
A bridge made of rotted wood;
New clothes without an emperor,
And all who rely on him will be consumed
When reality overcomes his folly.
Weep for those whose lives
Are in the hands of such a prince
And fortify your own house
Against the storms to come.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

The Haggis King of the Highland Moor

There's many a man that can make a heart flutter,
Cutting swathes through the lasses as if through warm butter.
But all ladies swoon, be they rich or they poor
For the Haggis King of the Highland Moor.

They say he hails from the U.S. Midwest,
But he speaks with a brogue that would rank with the best.
He fancies himself quite the sporting young lad,
Always decked out in his best highland plaid.

He makes his living, he happily relates
Importing canned haggis o'er to the States;
Plus knicknacks of tartan, the odd shortbread tin,
And all things suggestive of Scotland to him.

And if you should wonder at his business plan,
The Highland games industry counts on this man.
When tourists come begging with money in hand,
It's his merchandise that supplies the demand.

From plastic toy claymores, to fine Harris Tweed,
The Haggis King carries whatever you need.
With him on the job no promoter fears
That he might ever run out of Scotch souveniers.

But it is the haggis that most makes the man;
Cooked in a sheep's stomach, then sealed in a can;
That concoction of spices and oatmeal and meat,
Resulting in that inedible treat,

That Americans of Scottish descent,
Have to try once, by common assent,
To prove their Scottishness forever more,
While reminding them what their ancestors left for.

The Haggis King's happy to sell them the stuff,
Though he fears it would treat his digestion quite rough,
And never eats it himself as a rule.
He didn't get wealthy by being a fool.

When his factory kitchens begin smelling rank,
He cries in his Glenfiddich all the way to the bank.
For true Scottishness is, if you hear him speak,
In holding his shillings so tight that they squeak.

Lift a glass that he sold you, filled to the brim
With a libation, you also purchased from him.
And drink toast after toast till you fall on the floor
To the Haggis King of the Highland Moor.