“Innkeep, bring seven more of your darkest bitter.
And spill none.
We are weary
and the traildust will does not wash off by will alone.”
The sly troubadour nattered aloud.
And entered a raven-haired maiden
whose skin was rosy.
Her contours desirable
with deep poitrine
deep unfathomable depths
and coal soot darkened her eyes,
as if she was a lady of the night,
and the troubadour, being cloy and with a wife far gone from the tavern,
planned a rendezvous
which unfolded in his mind
like intricate tapestry
and the halls within his intellect lit up
with bright schemes
and spurious foundations.
He saw his saddle bent with the maiden’s limp frame
and his bed full of her yawning curves.
He slipped out of his seat, in his mind, and fell upon her with all of his charm
and suspect guile
and tamed her with a lash of his tongue.
He projected his strategy
up against the reverse of his eyelids
and watched his the plot unfold.
Every eventuality carefully penned
in tendrils of thought
slithering from ear to ear,
The troubadour was ready to claim his prize.
And he stood in one great leap.
Sending an ocean of pints across the inn floor.
So he mourned for seventy days.
in a room alone.
I believe this was one of the many tortures given to us by Visual Fringe honcho and poetry addict Anna McCambridge, who delighted in throwing us words like "poitrine".
This is also proof that Butch would rather have been role-playing that week.