|Master Cerian Cantwr|
There once was an archer who strode through a wood,
His step it was light and carefree.
He followed a river up to its broadhead,
Then he stopped 'neath the shade of a tree.
For lying there sleeping, upon a soft mound,
A maiden lay resting her eyes.
The archer, he quivered, and sensing a hunt,
He hid in a thicket to spy.
The maiden did waken and sleepily rise
Her eyes they did range far and near.
She grew taught as a bowstring and suddenly afraid,
She thought she had something to fear.
The archer, he fletched himself out of the hedge
For to quiet the poor maiden's dread.
He said, have no fear, but come straight to my arms.
Where straight as an arrow she sped.
He said to her, darling won't yew be my beau?
And placed his hand under her chin.
She touched his knock feather, examined his shaft,
And looked up at him with a grin.
His grip it was steady, his aim it was fine,
And straight to the target he sped.
The shaft it struck true, and the tip it bit deep,
And the maiden was knocked up instead.
There must be a moral to wind up my tale,
This encounter was wonderful strange.
If of archer's knocks and shafts you are afraid,
Then be certain you don't sleep down range.
|This page maintained by Cerian Cantwr, firstname.lastname@example.org.|