A thousand knights on war-bred horses ride.
And sparrows sing the fog away in morn.
When wine and bread my gut do fill betide,
I’ll sing the battle psalm like manner born.
In troth a dry comfort I sucked and cried,
but learned to climb and handouts did I scorn.
Tis when we’ve pockets filled our past is lost.
A circle joined, a place, at such a cost.
It’s Ottava Rima night at dVerse Poets Pub. Barkeep Frank bids us post our iambic efforts and peruse the gallery. Come along and join in!