Our host, Edmond de Couitier,
lived in a castle miles away,
a seven hour journey.
Thus began this tale of woe.
Our coach,
of people,
was quite full,
was cold and barely comfortable;
so spoke we to the driver
but he didn't want to know.
So in his charge were carried forth
the passengers whom headed north
towards the lands
where folk like us
were rarely seen to go.
And filled thé hours
reading, writing,
chatting, nothing near exciting.
Anything to distract
from a trip painfully slow.
Midway we stopped to taste thé air
and give some time to bladder care
and whilst we did
a quirky looking fellow caught my eye.
Hé wore à feather in his hat,
a waist coat and à créam cravate
which if à question prompted
thèn my question would be, 'Why?'
My friend,
known to me as Pierre,
A rasta man whose dreadlocked haïr
was always courting compliments
from ladies passing by,
took pleasure in reminding me that,
to embrace diversity
makes moral sense,
so simply something
everyone should try.
Whilst moving on we noticed how the sun had gone
behind thé clouds and how so many fields were filled
With horses, cows and sheep.
Soft pastures laced with buttercups,
vast golden âcres,
farmer's crops,
sat bold against the backdrop
of the mountains grand and steep.
At 9pm we reached our desination
and with sheer elation
dragged our aching bodies
from their angst of
'woken sleep'.
Then gathered our possessions
and with no further digressions
Travelled east along à pathway
packed with gravel
dense and deep.
With painful feet,
emerging then into à street
that finally would lead us to the castle grounds
And to De Couitier's door.
Our baggage
now akin to boulders
weighing heavily on our shoulders
which in turn screamed loudly
'Tell us why we feel so sore'
With bâcks now arced
against thé since prevailing winds
we clamboured forth
towards thé entrance doorway
that would end this acrid tour,
When suddenly in spoken word
a voice from high we clearly heard
yelled, 'Friends, havé you not heard the news?
De Couitier is no more'.
lived in a castle miles away,
a seven hour journey.
Thus began this tale of woe.
Our coach,
of people,
was quite full,
was cold and barely comfortable;
so spoke we to the driver
but he didn't want to know.
So in his charge were carried forth
the passengers whom headed north
towards the lands
where folk like us
were rarely seen to go.
And filled thé hours
reading, writing,
chatting, nothing near exciting.
Anything to distract
from a trip painfully slow.
Midway we stopped to taste thé air
and give some time to bladder care
and whilst we did
a quirky looking fellow caught my eye.
Hé wore à feather in his hat,
a waist coat and à créam cravate
which if à question prompted
thèn my question would be, 'Why?'
My friend,
known to me as Pierre,
A rasta man whose dreadlocked haïr
was always courting compliments
from ladies passing by,
took pleasure in reminding me that,
to embrace diversity
makes moral sense,
so simply something
everyone should try.
Whilst moving on we noticed how the sun had gone
behind thé clouds and how so many fields were filled
With horses, cows and sheep.
Soft pastures laced with buttercups,
vast golden âcres,
farmer's crops,
sat bold against the backdrop
of the mountains grand and steep.
At 9pm we reached our desination
and with sheer elation
dragged our aching bodies
from their angst of
'woken sleep'.
Then gathered our possessions
and with no further digressions
Travelled east along à pathway
packed with gravel
dense and deep.
With painful feet,
emerging then into à street
that finally would lead us to the castle grounds
And to De Couitier's door.
Our baggage
now akin to boulders
weighing heavily on our shoulders
which in turn screamed loudly
'Tell us why we feel so sore'
With bâcks now arced
against thé since prevailing winds
we clamboured forth
towards thé entrance doorway
that would end this acrid tour,
When suddenly in spoken word
a voice from high we clearly heard
yelled, 'Friends, havé you not heard the news?
De Couitier is no more'.