An appeal to the senses
She's a true-blue princess ...
... and you are a genuine knight in, well, fairly shiny armour.
She's trapped in a castle guarded by a fierce dragon (okaaay, it's just her mom but moms are still fire-breathers, innit?).And in the time-honoured manner, you're just itching to slay the dragon and rescue her.
All this despite your best mates telling you that, hey, Bertha the barmaid is probably just as maidenly as your princess.
After all, one do hear things about those upper-class parties, y'know.
And there's nary a dragon in the landscape where buxom damsels cavort.
But nay, you're going for the pot at the end of the rainbow - after all, if you marry a princess, you'll get to be a king, innit?
Wrong.You'll be a Queen's consort.
And your career as a knight in, well, fairly shiny armour would be over.
In fact your armour will stay in the box in the storeroom and you'll be in suit and ties.
And your charger put to stud duties.
Instead of swordsmanship, you'd be schooled in the virtues of shampoos, facial scrubs and 24-hour BO protection.
No more gallivanting around the lands, serenading/wooing/rescuing damsels in distress and claiming favours.
Instead you'll be expected to be home for dinner every night.
But hey, it's not too bad living in a castle, innit?Standing at a high balcony on a high tower and looking over the countryside shining in golden moonlight, champagne in a bucket.
And opera glasses to help to you see just that bit further.
And if you are lucky, maybe you might just spot your best mate with Bertha the barmaid among the haystacks.
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To my munchkins;Would you rather not bask, in warm compassion,
Than be consumed by a burning passion?
The deepest scars are by the brightest of flames,
Searing the soul, making you never the same.
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY
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I have made fellowships -
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,
Wilfred Owen, Apologia Pro Poemate Meo
11 comments:
When you live in a castle, your hair will grow blonde and long. And then you can escape through the window.
My momma taught me that.
p/s: Who's this Wilfrid Owen? Is she my relative?
How many munchkins do you have? Should I be jealous?
gemma,
She's talking about hair re-bonding, dear. You need to have a castle to sell to get a good one.
And Wilfrid Owen is prolly an ancestor of yours.
He was called the poet of the trenches during the Great War. He was killed on the very last day of the war in 1918.
lily,
That depends - who's your Daddy?
:p
P/S: There's only one Munchkins. The others are Lambchops, Sweetiepie and Bootiegirl ... lol
wah, you the next hans christian andersen!!! when can i buy your boobs?
Gemma's daddy is Michael.
My papa is Rafa.
Does that answer your question?
Am I a munchkin?
dipsy,
I think u have me confused with a plastic surgeon ... :p
lily,
Bagi tau papa Rafa kita kahwin lari malam ini jugak ...
pugly,
No - you're a lambchops ... lol.
I'd give up Bertha, become the Queen's consort and be regulated to stud duties anytime (especially when she - the Queen - was younger)
Somehow your poems to this munchkin makes me want to er throw myself on the bed and cry into the pillow heh heh.
bangkai,
Your missus tracks you all around cyberspace, izzit?
leen,
That's nice of you. It's actually meant to reflect on the realities of love - beyond the romantic stuff.
It's based on the assertion:
"Love? Warm compassion is truer than a burning passion."
Can't remember where I found that.
Some info for all,
Wilfred Owen was a young soldier in World War 1. He was known as the Poet of the Trenches, and most of his best works were posthumous.
He was killed a week before the end of WW1. Apparently the news of his death reached his family just as their town's church bells rang proclaiming the new peace.
Drama gitew ...
He was 25, I think.
And no, babe - I don't know him personally ... :p
Lils,
Actually Wilfred Owen is a Shropshire boy whose family moved to Birkenhead (all this Wiki-ed la).
And his pic on Wiki has a likeness to your jantung hati la ... :D
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