Wednesday, 14 November 2012


With a root of a pine, a bough and a boulder,
Made I this cudgel asleep 'pon my shoulder.
Each hungry dawning I solemnly greet it.
Sacred thing, Weapon'd, so I will not eat it.

Come closer and sniff at the truth on my breath.
Life is a scree of pain, hunger and death.
But no matter how desperate and starving my need,
I must not eat Weapon'd, that is the Creed.

I take to the cliff-side, slavering drool.
The hunger is gnawing and stabbing and cruel.
I'll wallop the wolves 'til they're tatter'd and dead.
I'll sniff out a goat-herd and knock in his head.

My succulent cudgel, it teases and tempts me,
Crooning “No. I am Weapon'd. My status exempts me.”
Then I'm climbing the tor that rears up in the heath,
And I'm breaking the rocks with my great aching teeth.

Life is too long and my belly is cramping.
I'm whining and weeping and raging and stamping.
My belly is cramping and life is too long,
But I will not eat Weapon'd. That would be wrong.

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