By Rachel Heffington
Long ago in a valley green,
Where a thriving hamlet once had been
Was a rubb-ly castle, hidden well
By maples tall, in a shady dell.
The penants, fluttery once, and gay,
Now hung in shreds- a faded gray;
The tower was crumbly, the dias leaked,
And in the dungeon the mouses squeaked.
Now, Squire Cliff and Baron Bim,
(Both plum full of peppery vim)
Engaged in a duel on the weedy lawn
As the edge of night gave way to dawn.
The Baron, (insulted) and the Squire (quite red
With anger) their stout hearts quivered with dread.
None wanted to fight, they dallied and stalled,
"3 Paces!" which words their courage dulled.
But neither would give it up as a joke-
"What we need s'for Bim (th'old Baron) to choke!"
The sun had climbed higher, now quite in the sky,
They drew swords and poised, "Hark! Where comes that cry?!?!"
Repeated! And from the dell came a maid,
With basket and blanket, their arms she stayed-
"Kind Squire! Good Baron! You mustn't fast!
Come, bury the hatchet, enjoy this repast!
Reluctant, but grateful, each laid down his arms,
Exploring instead, a beef-pasty's charms.
They kissed and made up o'er a cup o' darjeeling,
And surely there was quite a brotherly feeling.
And so the adage shall henceforth be,
"All's well that ends with a cup of tea!"