Now arisen at Tyntálon, tenpenny crews,
Of base and low mores, marred by broad news,
Desires of plunder, and to sunder the capital,
From dear land that feeds it, to feast as a Vandal.
Our kin languishes in darkness, kindness gone by gloaming,
“Sate your appetite!” from slake mouths foaming,
Malefactors waxing, with admonishing wit,
Largess of Splendour, to Society’s writ.
Borne from liturgy, our Lady Misrule,
Forever the player, Providence’s fool,
See now courtly games, the gainsaid names,
“Innocence!” Vultures proclaim,
“Leave us our ill-gotten gains!”
Hope to nascent ethics, ennobled and true,
The hour beckoning heroes, ethereal in hue,
Justice to our Lady, time well-past due.
Burgeoning streets all, powder in keg,
The pauper rising too, “Rue to you who made me beg!”
At once wordless pacts, washing over manor row,
The crowd grabbing Ser Pratt,
“I’m better than this, you know!
My finery sullied, you savage glut!
Up-jumped brigands, spawn of mutt!
I’ll have your hands, then your tongues,
And believe you me, you’re the lucky ones.
The rest I’ll split, smirk to knee,
Then hastily hanged, as fruit to a tree,
Believe you me, that’s where you’ll be.”
And now a hushed aura grows, goading the lord, “Go on”,
As one they wonder, “Why, Lord of men,
Sing us now a noble nude song!”
But soon the gent, knave-heart returning,
Fearing his host, his courage now spurning,
“What called he us, comely as dogs?
Let’s hear him whine, lashed to the hogs!”
Laughter’s mad cheer, chiding his horror,
Tearing his clothes, unsheathing his honour.
To censure the riot, marched Magister Pallid,
Mincing no words, and waxing candid,
“Hear you all, low rabble rousers,
Abandon your folly, find this man his trousers!”
Heedless they went, worried little at all,
Magister felled too, unceremonious fall,
Dawning sun bearing, shining heraldry of law,
The desperation drawing, diverse parties to the fore.
Through gates golden, came Maelond of Moldon,
His oration bent ears, and enamoured the wanton,
“Mail has passed, molasses under the mountain,
Seeping through springs, to my courtly fountain.
Troubled I head, home to my blood,
Finding it mingled, mired in mud,
Where now is the hand, holding crown aloft?
Where the heister of strings, while kingly arm gone soft?
I stand in appeal, appalled in frank alarm,
That my thick water, should come close to harm.
Yet as you reave, from your bold anger I seethe,
Hold now to your course, as I live and breathe!
I shan’t remorse, your cause of just mort,
Tear down these mercantile, misers as you ought.
Leave but a seat, untrampled by common feet,
When anomie is stayed, to this throne you will entreat.
It will find you as lordly, in law’s due course,
Reaping of our hoard, was the strife’s true source.
Amnesty, dignity, respect through fealty,
This all you will gain, if cause you take with me.
Come haughty crowd, now simply hang him,
With my blessing, bring this ordeal to ending.”
The Emergent Sea 