Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Persisting Triumph

As I made my way through mire and bog
I thought of how that mighty Macree.
would cause the tremors in even Satan's dog
that Phaentom of the lowland lay.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

Pray your prayers to heaven above,
pray God's hounds shall be at their heel.
Your prayers will be answered, they given the shove
be in this world er next, not for choice to seal.

While the darkness befalls that cold Northlund,
you'll find a glimmer o'er the East
in pale morn's light,
and with this advance, through bog and through peat.

So follow that morn,
from West to East.
Trust in your lead,
who'll keep at bay the beast.

Death's unfriendly hand
may soon deliver,
that knell from the North
that pales soul to shiver.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

In regalia they are dressed,
in family coat they are wrapped,
this brave contingent
upon whom in all hope is trapped.

So wear that jewel with honor,
and tartan kilt so bright,
your clandaugh your birth-right
your broad sword the requite.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

With blade in air, thy hand delivers
the cut unto archer, arrow and quiver
While heart beats like drum assunder
Your life-force delivers sullen death and plunder.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

Into that eye, ice glance and glimmer
charge forward you, stabbing evil this sinner
Letting that blood from him now flow
Coloring crimson the river feeding soil for sow.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

And into that morn, we'll pass like the Saint
travelling onward to bosom from this availing fog.
Into that eye's warm light sheilding heart from faint,
we'll travel to long home from this lowland's hell-bog.

Pressing forward, pressing forward,
one boot mired, knee-depth peat,
I press forward, upward and onward
for me there'll be no coward's retreat.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Early Fall, On a Winding Road

Sterquilinium

While driving on a winding road
I saw a wondrous tree
That may have seemed a joy to you
But seemed not so to me

Where one might see its scarlet flush
In a tower of autumn pride
I beheld its tumorous form
And the threat of life denied

And though its strength might show itself
To some less jaded eyes
For me its copper glory
Its cancerous heart belies

Friday, October 20, 2006

Truth

In the land of the ephemerie,
where the waters of Delphi flow
there the place of noble breed,
of men with purpose to few is known.

Ruled once by great King Richard
(of who's Knights, they were but poor)
it was a place of nobility
that would some day surely need shore.

For like the creature for which it is named,
(a life of slight instant, to be sure)
the life's blood of this place
would course but only for one measure, only for one frame.

Like Camelot before her,
the black Knight he would not tarry.
For Arture, Black was the lust,
in Briefington twas the Sir Teddy the lush!

To live but only an instant,
one breath, and only one beat;
they packs in the life before them,
before that life she is repleat.

The fate of this Nation,
its generations are untold.
Whilst breeding like wild banshies,
yet in that breath, nothing can grow old.

No knowledge is passed,
no ventures are gained.
No history for young-on's
for in one wink they are aged.

So drink merry knights!
Drink into this eve.
Thy temple not nagged by morning's bright light,
thy living not worried with such terrible slight.

With no need for religion,
no need for distress,
thy life is thy fortress,
thy life is thy death.

So live on merry gents,
(what living you do)
there'll be no morrow
so go on with your "do".

Fear not the wagging tongue
(for who will they tell?)
and that future generation,
is doomed the same hell.

If one soul is set free
from this terrible land,
let that soul be the one,
who'll build a future with plan.

Let his countenance be true,
and his writings be few;
but what writing is wrung,
let it be not in warning, but this "history" undone.

For no history exists in that raunchy, short life
That damned liberertine ephemerie
and forsaken, empassioned short life.

King Richard had wrought it
many ages ago
and lives just got shorter
with each passing new row.

The streams of sweet truth,
flow gentle, straight twine;
but for not the ephemerie
who drowns waters turned lie.

Their life is their reason,
their life is their proof
of what history of living
each life is a spoof.

So drink on poor ephemerie
till the spring is but trickle.
You drink up her soul,
yet the Father slings scycle.

Your libertine life,
in one instant undone.
Its Creator has ripped it,
from your fallow soiled fun.

When enough generations have come
and have gone,
the very existence you crave,
is existence undone.

Take NOT! down this Nation,
do not take it in strife,
for these hands that have worked it
your passions can't take ALL life.

Drink on short-lived Nation,
drink into this night,
your drinking shorts living
but ours is right, long life.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

The Treachery of the Swiss

Sterquilinium

Everywhere I go
I never fail to see
the two accusing hands
of the clock outstretched toward me.

From time to time I've torn them off
and left the clock-face bare
But then I find I can't abide
the dial's empty stare.

And so I damn the Swiss
(and their awful mortal lock)
that wretched race that gave the world
both Calvin and the Clock.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Red Bess of Inverness

Sterquilinium

Red are her hairlocks
(ach legh ach leigh)
Red is her necklace
(ach legh ach leigh)
Red are her freckles
(ach legh ach leigh)
Tho' she be freckless
(ach legh ach leigh-o!)

Bessie she's red now
(ach legh ach leigh)
And wears bright red slickers
(ach legh ach leigh)
Over her kid gloves
(ach legh ach leigh)
And red are her knickers
(ach legh ach leigh-o!)

Ach legh ach leigh!
Ach legh ach leigh-o!
Ach legh ach leigh!
Ach legh ach legh-o!

Red is her weskit
(ach legh ach leigh)
Red is her pigeon
(ach legh ach leigh)
Red is the rose
(ach legh ach leigh)
She calls her religion
(ach legh ach leigh-o!)

Red are her elbows
(ach legh ach leigh)
Red is her lace
(ach legh ach leigh)
Best not to mention
(ach legh ach leigh)
How bright red her face
(ach legh ach leigh-o!)

Ach legh ach leigh!
Ach legh ach leigh-o!
Ach legh ach leigh!
Ach legh ach legh-o!

Philo's Fall

While Black Philo can argue,
in white hall so stark,
his progeny cowers in memory
of his fumbling in dark.

This liar of yore,
like adopted kin of today,
an existence in snore -
flawed character our bane.

So accomodate and welcome
enemies visiting our heel.
Hugging jackals your nature,
causing truth's skin to reel.

True heirs to your blood
see through flawed lies.
They trumpet antithesis
thus vanquishing disguise.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Donation

Sterquilinium

Around about the time I learned that time was born to die
I learned what makes all things corrupt would suffer its own fate
For it’s not that trees lay as they fall but trees fall as they lie
For unlike angels fallen man may never rise too late

Though we damn our deaths and we damn this constant change
That weathers us and grows us but to let us go to seed
Our temporal natures save us from the permanent derange;
The very thing that harms us is the thing we dearly need

For were we like the angels who beheld the face of God
And never touched by death and thus permitted to atone
But let our pride’s dominion be our scepter and our rod
We’d be, like they, eternally, in prisons of our own