Shortly after I was made Bard, I fell madly in love with a sweet and irresistably sexy Rowanite lass named Michelle [Hi, Michelle! Are you embarrassed yet?] As a result, I tended to spend my spare weekends travelling to forn parts instead of writing endless victory poems, and my Bardic duties suffered. This apology was my attempt to redress this lack.
Baron Steven, Lord of Rockleigh, and Mathilde, our Baroness,
As your Bard, I’ve struggled hard, but I confess to great distress.
For the Lord on high above, my prayers ignored, and gave a shove,
So like a hawk upon a dove, I was descended on… by love!
My lady hails from Chenonceaux, (whence came a Rowanite we know!)
But lives in thrall within the hall of Blessed Ursula, to scrawl
A thousand theses, big and small; thus to this saint she gives her all.
And ‘though her father earns a rather rightly royal wage for toil,
And she wants for very little, in the days of her committal
To her study, clearly it’ll make my wallet old and brittle
As I ride the countryside, to be beside my loving… girlie.
So the task you kindly asked that I perform; to whit, to form
A poem, song or epic long, for every feast until I’ve ceased
To be your bard, is getting hard. But never fear! For you I’m here,
I hold my joyful duties dear, and for the year I’ll stay sincere
To all I vowed the night I bowed and said aloud, to serve I’m proud.
So in the days and feasts to be, when misty haze enshroudeth me,
And any phrase of poetry I cannot raise, and muses flee,
I shall endeavour, now and ever till forever, to be clever,
Writing rhymes to suit the times, if you meantimes forgive my crimes.