I breathe the Angel's air,
for she is fair and far away,
like the fairy tale I weave,
for her flaxen locks I grieve.
Locked away in a faraway castle,
her hair grown long like a tassel.
A figment of an imaginary time,
pieced together for this rhyme.
I'm not much for slaying dragons,
what an ugly, improbable beast.
Like making bread with sardines,
it's all ingredient and the yeast.
I do like castle's dining halls,
a table overflowing with wild meat.
Before I slay the dragon in me,
I must have a little debauchery feast.
There are will be mead, wine and ale,
for if I am to fight an imaginary dragon,
I must fortify my will, and get high,
high enough to fly in the Angel's air.
So, off to the clouds I go,
to fight the beast, to and fro.
Of course I win the Angel fair,
fly off to her castle in her air.
Soon, I stroke her flaxen tassel,
in a faraway land high in the castle.
And then suddenly, I awake and choke,
it's only the cat's tail, that I stroke.
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2010 © Ronald W. Hull