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Poem

There came an invitation to a banquet:
"The Lady of the Manor bids thee cheer.
We’ve meat and drink sufficient for the twelvemonth
And summon thee for Pentecost this year.
We honor thee a seat on the pavilion
And ask thee as a noble honored guest,
In keeping with the manner of tradition.
Regale us with the marvels of thy quest."

I made resolve departure on the morrow
And ventured to the sands that marched nigh Wales,
Acquainted with the last of my provisions
Not long before the height of my travails. 
A page announced the word of my reception.
The steward made me place upon the board.
I sensed a vague discomfort at the seating, 
But bade the issue seek its own accord.

They served me wine of nary any vintage.
A coarse cut crust of bread lay in a bowl.
The kitchen maid then ushered in a trencher
Of four and twenty minnow over sole.
The fish was cold; the sauce was thin as water.
My questions rang as though the maid were deaf;
Pray tell me why my supper reeks of stables, 
And please return this offal to the chef.

I found the feast a gospel of demerit
And wondered what betide the warder’s art,
With bill of fare unjustly less than tasteful;
A feeble blend of spices lacking heart.
And so resides the moral of this story,
The nut inside the shell within the husk:
Nobility’s no guarantee of flavor, 
And prompt, attentive service is a must.

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