In Olden days, now long forgotten
Buried in the mists of time,
There lived a poet, Arthur Cotton
Whose poems somehow didn`t always rhyme.
He wrote in carefully chosen phrases
Celebrating ancient lands
Where knights in armour, magic swords
And fire-breathing beasts were often found.
But alas, some fault or failing
Proved his sense of rhythm wrong,
His rapt attention to detailing
Made the last line always far too long.
He travelled mainly incognito
Always hoping he might find
Someplace his talent may be welcomed;
Appreciation, maybe, of some kind.
But every time the locals scorned
All his attempts to entertain.
Invariably they sent him packing
Back into the wilderness again.
Eventually, he wandered through
A place where literature was banned.
The locals there detested poems
Especially those that never seemed to scan.
So, unaware of local customs
Arthur plied his usual trade:
Standing on his weathered soapbox,
Pleased at the commotion that he made.
Then suddenly, an interruption
By a band of swarthy guards
Who set about him; heavy truncheons
Rained upon the cranium of the bard.
They took our woebegone orator
To the courthouse in the square.
Unanimous, of course, the verdict:
Guilty, which he thought a mite unfair.
The King announced to all assembled
Summing up the sorry case,
And as he spoke, our hero trembled
Wishing someone else could take his place.
"The penalty for faulty scansion
Demonstrated by your art
Is death, by slow and painful traction
On the rack, you`re slowly pulled apart."
They marched him to the dingy dungeon
Bound in chains and handcuffs tight -
Prepared him for his execution
In the middle of his bleakest night.
"Pathetic preacher," roared the monarch,
"Have you anything to say -
Some final prayer, or short confession
Just before we s-t-r-e-t-c-h your life away?"
"O mighty leader", quoth the wordsmith,
"Please allow one last request:
To read my valedictory Opus
Penned last night, about my dire distress."
His Solemn Majesty regarded
Scraps of paper in his grasp.
“Recite your dull pathetic ode -
The final verse will be your dying gasp.”
So in the dark dank torture-chamber,
On the rack, bereft, forlorn,
The stricken speaker lay in silence,
Cleared his throat and timidly began:
"In Olden days, now long forgotten,
Buried in the mists of time,
There lived a poet, Arthur Cotton,
Whose poems somehow didn`t always rhyme..."
© Elwood Herring 8 Feb 1999
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