Wednesday, January 28, 2009

"Sonet to Kween Titanya" by Botum the Weever

My dear sweet readers, I have received this rhyme in a strange manner of Providence, and I consider it my duty to convey this poem to the appropriate public. The discovery of the piece was as follows: one golden-tipped June morning, around Midsummer's Eve, while walking in an abandoned garden in long grass, scattering the chilly pearls of dew with each step, I found a minute scrap of what appeared to be tattered parchment bound tightly to an apple twig with what appeared to be clematis tendrils. As I unwrapped the fragment, I looked down, distracted by the shattered petals falling; I noticed, with a shock, that I was standing in the middle of a fairy ring! Every tiny toadstool parasol was neatly plucked, and laid down head to stem in a cirque, and some indeed seemed to be decorated with tiny flowers, some of which were out of season! I realized that these were classic signs that the old neglected garden was visited recently by the wee-folk. Musing, I turned back to the tiny scroll, which I unrolled carefully, noticing what appeared to be almost microscopic marks inscribed on its inner surface. I ran into the house, got out my large magnifying glass from my condensed OED, and started to examine the document, realizing that it was obviously extremely ancient, yet due to some strange magic (or fairy-glamor) I could actually decipher it! The letters seemed to leap around pookah fashion, then settled down, till it resulted in this, which my gentle readers, with its full title, follows:


O if my pristeen dewey joy of yooth
Shood lose one drop of elipser deevine,
O if. Forsooth? Oh chance. Perhaps O trooth
O woe is me? She smuffer a deecline"
Then. I shall curse that dreadful dratted time
That dooms all dreamy dears to direful death"
And that my love, O love so sweeet sublime!
Has sailed the streems of Syx. and river Leth.
Due to so horrid concourse, then I'll die.
For surely her dispuse shall wrack me so
But not before with revelection high
In fine anigh immoral line she'll grow.

O grant A Muse so sune its not too late
That she should be embalmed in mireful date.

Botum, the Weever

Naturally, upon reading this I was thunderstruck. This proves beyond all questioning, that Shakespeare was one of the greatest fairy historians England has ever produced, along with C.S.Lewis and J.R.R.Tolkein and that magnificent Rawling.
It proves, without a doubt, that Midsummer Night's Dream is a seminal work of history. It also proves that time and location mean little to fairies, who can easily "put a girdle round the earth" etc.

Anissa Nedzel Gage copyright 2009

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