The Bard and The Brewer
Mid the middle ages, lived a middle-aged bard,
earning middle wages spinning fables and canard.
Running short of cash one day and feeling parched and stale,
he gambled on poetic sway to win a pint of ale.
The brewer, amazonic woman, also middle-aged,
wore an inharmonic scowl, her countenance was caged.
The bard surveyed her muscled bulk, his eyes flicked left and right,
pausing at her sulky hulk and downcast mouth clamped tight.
The bard assumed a winsome charm, he'd done so half his life.
The day before, he'd fast disarmed the cake-armed baker's wife.
He said, ‘I came for ale my dear, but find my thirst suppressed'.
'From drinking in your visage clear, my needs are reassessed'.
'May I just say I'm blessed, for you are Venus in a vest'
and hope it won't transgress if I should compliment your chest'.
He paused; she said, 'Sir take this mug and have a dropp of brew'
and from a brimming leather jug, she poured an inch or two.
He swigged, said 'I profess you're tressed like nightingale's nest',
'your eyebrows coalescing in a splendid monocrest'.
She smiled, coquettish, baring rotting teeth and fetid gum
and said, ' I may be sparing of a thimbleful of rum'.
A heady mix of plaque and gin was seeping from her grin,
as fresh air flushed the darkened depths of cavity within.
He'd meant to finish grandly with a flourish and a jest.
Alas, he finished blandly as his gorge convulsed distressed.
'Your hips are unsuppressed, for they are striking east to west',
then weakly he confessed, 'but with your breath I'm less imprest'.
She took offence, how could she not, her feelings gravely hurt.
'How much do I owe', he cried, as knife appeared from skirt.
With knife tip pressed against his heart, she stroked her chin and frowned,
'Sir, usual it's a farthing, but from you I'll ‘ave one pound'.
Many coins fewer, he escaped her lethal skewer.
Never woo a brewer, if her mouth is scented sewer.
poem by Diane Hine
Added by Poetry Lover
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