It started, Anno Dottus, in the West,
With students by a love of knowledge blest,
Who modelled dressed as fighters, minus horse,
To illustrate a paper for a course.

But just as they were done and due to leave
The faerie world of dream and make-believe,
A fighter (history’s mute regarding who)
Decided he could make some history too.
He took a sword and struck a gallant pose,
Then whacked a fellow fighter on the nose!

The melée, unexpectedly begun,
Continued till the setting of the sun.
And once again, the next and every week,
The craze became a fashion, very chic,
As fighters took up armour, sword and shield
To reenact the ancient battle field.

But with its meteoric rise to fame,
Another unforeseen dilemma came.
So many came to heed the battle’s call,
That no one had the room to fit them all.
But undeterred, they passed the helm around
To raise enough to rent a piece of ground.

But in the time when all of this was planned
The gods of strife and conflict walked the land
So noisy mobs of students waving sticks
Resembled antisocial politics!

It nearly died, before its proper birth,
Cut down by all the fear that filled the earth,
Till someone in a sympathetic frame
Said, “Maybe if your meetings had a name…
“You’d cease to be a violent student crowd
“We’d list you as a club, and that’s allowed!”

Reprieve! They leapt for joy, oh sweet relief!
The beaurocratic mind surpassed belief!
But all the celebration sharply palled
When someone asked, “So what shall we be called?”

A quandary; all were stunned and no one spoke,
Till over by the door the silence broke
The voice of one, a budding authoress,
Who cleared her throat, delivered this address:

“We seek a name, some letters on a page,
“To form a living beacon for the age.
“Society we are, it’s plain to see;
“Creative, more than anyone, are we;
“Anachronisms all, we’re proud to say;
“The only name that fits is SCA!”