Sunday, 11 September 2011

Lay Grouter, Finger First

On thirstday, at midnight, he came to the gate
Where it's said a young man might come free
But the guard on the gate could not let him in
For the guard on the gate was a tree

Since Grouter was young and not come of age
And in turn had grown up in a cave
The best he had seen in his time underground
Was a tree turned quite well on a lathe

So unsure of whom stood mostly barring his way
And impressed right away by its weight
He asked of the tree, if he might not come in
Or if not perhaps lurk by the gate?

The tree right rudely ignored his request
Instead thinking thoughts slow and slurred
So Grouter was forced to climb his way up
Where he thought he might therefore be heard

Through a knot, by a branch, he asked once again
If a young man, without means, might come in
To the town on the hill where wonders were kept
Such as women, and needles, and gin

The women, he'd heard, were willing and ripe
The needles as sharp as old wit
And the gin kept in bottles that never ran dry
Brewed from beetroot, and muscles, and grit

To the tree then Grouter explained further his need
For drink not reformed from a paste
For needles to stitch up his two ailing boots
And for a girl without teets to her waist

The tree seemed to answer, but with never a word
That the young man should enter right now
The young man replied with a nod of his head
And the tree answered back with a bough.

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