Eston/Eston Poetry

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Poetry by various Estonian nobles.

The Trout and the Lout

-Lorinan Rivendale

Once, my dear friends, so the story goes,
a man named Sir Bufort grew daring and bold.
A man known for lechery, passion and lust,
yet still concerned himself for others in trust.

He went wandering one night,
by palest moonlight,
and found him a room thought so fair.
A wandering he went
though the night was near spent
looking to get a noble's gray hair.

Through thickets of petticoats
Daisy days and maysie dotes
He treaded unconcerned for his sight.
How funny it seemed
to the man of great means
when his dress began to scream in fright.

So fled the great Bufort, the story then goes
to the arms of which lover, only the night would know
So to drown all his sorrows inside he then flows
to the music of tankards of ale and the throes of his passion

He sent out a notice to nobles of worth,
Attempting to cause them to give him some berth
By which he could be released from duties of worth
To fish by the rivers of Meneriel

Said fish, he was told,
Grew both daring and bold
And swam up the stream and back again
And better by far,
was the visions of stars
that would sparkle like gems in the wind.

Great Bufort looked out, and spied him a trout
And then he looked down in his hand,
A mystery fine, a tankard of wine
Appeared as he surveyed the land.

Said trout to the man,
'Sir, give me your hand
for I soon would faint of great thirst.'
Said man to the trout,
'You great foolish lout,
I must drink of my tankard first.'

'I find, my dear fish,
that you lack the great bliss
of knowing the pleasures of lust.
For what can you find
swimming round all the time
except maggots and minnows and dust.'

Said trout to the man,
'You will soon understand,
the visions I see in my life,
for tankard you bear
will cause you to hear
nothing but fish for this great fortnight'

With that the man noticed
His breath became bloatish
and then he saw his hands were gone.
Instead of ten digits
Two fins waved in pivots
as he fell and began flopping along

Into the stream he followed
Sir Trout as he wallowed
his way up the stream and back down
And still he is found,
just swimming around
Hoping someone will bring him back up.

So take care my dear friends,
for if drink you should find
consumes every part of your mind
You might just end like Sir Bufort
Drunken trout though he be,
His mind ever clouded and never to see
again the sights of women and ale,
only sea.

An ode for the drunken trout and the lustful lout

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