The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #59418   Message #1843123
Posted By: Rapparee
25-Sep-06 - 04:16 PM
Thread Name: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
My good blade carves the casques of men,        
My tough lance thrusteth sure,        
My strength is as the strength of ten,        
Because my heart is pure.        
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,              
The hard brands shiver on the steel,        
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,        
The horse and rider reel:        
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,        
And when the tide of combat stands,              
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,        
And I go stand upon my hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend        
On whom their favors fall!        
For them I battle till the end,              
To save from shame and thrall:        
But all my heart is drawn above,        
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:        
I never felt the kiss of love,        
Nor maiden's hand in mine.              
More bounteous aspects on me beam,        
Me mightier transports move and thrill;        
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer        
A virgin heart -- this makes me ill.        

When down the stormy crescent goes,              
A light before me swims,        
Between dark stems the forest glows,        
I hear a noise of hymns:        
Then by some secret shrine I ride;        
I hear a voice, but none are there;              
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,        
The tapers burning fair.        
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,        
The silver vessels sparkle, gleam,        
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,              
For I have found a public toilet CLEAN!        

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres        
I find a magic bark;        
I leap on board: no helmsman steers:        
I float till all is dark.              
A gentle sound, an awful light!        
Three angels bear the holy Grail:        
With folded feet, in stoles of white,        
On sleeping wings they fail.        
Ah, blessed vision! Blood of God!              
My spirit seeks some seedy bars,        
As down dark throats the whisky floats,        
And I finish many jars.        

When on my goodly charger borne        
Thro' dreaming towns I go,              
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,        
The streets are full of snow.        
The tempest crackles on the leads,        
And soaks my rusting helm and mail;        
But o'er the dark a glory spreads,              
And gilds the driving hail.        
I leave the plain, I climb the height;        
No branchy thicket shelter yields;        
But bird-like forms in whistling storms        
Fly o'er and drop used food on me.              

A maiden knight — to me is given        
Such hope, I know not fear;        
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven        
That often meet me here.        
I muse on joy that will not cease,              
Pure spaces cloth'd in living beams,        
Pure lilies of eternal peace,        
Whose odors haunt my dreams;        
And, stricken by an angel's hand,        
This mortal armor that I wear,              
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,        
The trap-door's rusted shut, I fear.        

The clouds are broken in the sky,        
And thro' the mountain-plat        
A rolling organ-harmony              
Swells up, off-key and flat.        
Then move the trees, the copses nod,        
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:        
"O just and faithful knight of God!        
Ride on! the jakes are near."              
So pass I outhouse, loo, and latrine,        
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,        
Cross-legg'ed I ride, whate'er betide,        
For I must find a urinal.

                   Al, Fred's Lard's ten songs winner, 1885.