A Very Silly Blog which I thought apt, and which I'm posting for lack of a real blog...

I was pretty inspired by Shakespeare's Richard III, and so I decided (since I had some spare time between classes today) to compose an epic poem...in iambic pentameter, no less. I promise, I'll get to the real blogs soon enough...I’m just having a little fun in the meantime.

So if you're not a fan of cheesy rhyme schemes, goofy plotlines that make no real sense, or pseudo-Old English, you may want to consider turning back and waiting it out until a real blog comes along.  Because I'm warning you, I'm in a goofy mood...

For the rest of you, I'm sorry in advance. You'll just have to deal with my random creative whims.  Haha!

And so:

Dedicated to my lovely roommate, Laura Doyle. Inspired by her sleeping when I'm in the room—and due to lack of amusement from that quarter, I'm forced to come up with other ways to amuse myself. So this is what you get. :) Love you!

THE DOYLE

Part One

When all the world doth heave and toil away

And city streets with bustling children keep

A vigil on stout farmers, making hay:

In shadow lies The Doyle, fast asleep.

What dreams may be in others’ weary heads

As they in dreary parlors dare to doze?

Or like a child, curled up in their beds,

What visions haunt the hearts and minds of those?

Perchance a pasture green with wee baboons

Who speak in dignified yet subtle phrase?

Or taxi cabs that hail down like monsoons

On purple-handed people, left to graze

Upon the plastic barley and vermouth

That bubbles forth from springs all in the ground?

Or mayhap visions that seem so uncouth

Cannot in cobwebb’d souls of men be found.

Alas, what of The Doyle, in her lair?

What doth her blackened eyes see fit to find

Within that head, with raven ringlets fair,

And in the darkened consciousness behind?

Part Two

The Doyle, with her languid figure prone

Upon the dank and dirty ground below

The cavern walls wherein she lies, alone

Feels the telltale wind begin to blow…

Who dares disturb this formidable queen

As she slumbers sweetly in her den?

What fool is it who stumbles to this scene

And gamely marches on, forgetting when

The Doyle is awakened ‘gainst her will

She has the right of death upon the head

Of he whose manners are so ghastly ill

So as to rouse Her Majesty from bed?

The wind dies down, and yet The Doyle wakes

Her agitated mind berobbed of rest.

She rises slow; an inward sigh she takes

As midnight tresses tumble down her breast.

But lo! Her eyelids flutter, and her stare

Grows wide, yet chills beholders to the bone.

For ice, both bold and fierce, invades the glare

Which finds this guest unwelcome at her throne.

Part Three

This woodsman stout alights upon a log

And turns his ear upon The Doyle’s cry;

And making haste, repairs into the fog.

For fear his eyes turn round, alas to spy

The two ferocious beasts that have been set

Upon his trail, their breath so vile and crude

It whispers on his back, as like a net.

But then The Doyle cries, “Helga, Gertrude—

Go fast upon his heels, thou dreaded curs

To claim for me this trespasser in flight.

And if thou dost, I’ll grant unto your furs

All the gifts to win your hearts’ delight.”

And so the wolves chased on their mortal prey.

But speaking of the heart, The Doyle paused:

For she beheld the beauty of the day

And, yea, forgot the fury that had caused

Her wrath to be so roused. For then she spied

The handsome male of which she was in chase:

So awestruck by his looks, she vainly tried

To thus entreat the beasts to slacken pace!

Part Four

O Love! ‘Tis one of those mysterious things

That scarce can be described, for its strong sway

Holds rule alike of paupers and of kings!

How can this author, then, e’er hope to say

How chang’d The Doyle was, or even why?

Yet in the nick of time, she altered course

And bade her brutes halt, lest her love should die

And leave her broken-hearted with remorse.

It seems love’s fortune watched over the scene

And providence was at The Doyle’s side

When turning round, the woodsman saw the face

Of she from whom he’d run and tried to hide—

For in that moment, he beheld his life

Envisaged in her eyes, so dark and true.

And thus The Doyle, asked to be his wife,

Of course agreed, as well I’m sure you knew.

Oh schmaltzy lines I cannot help but write!

An epic such as this does call for some

Methinks, yet one may be extremely right

To say they make the poem sound quite dumb.

Part Five

It’s almost over now, I swear to you:

But just a few more lines won’t hurt you much.

Five parts is quite a bit, I know 'tis true,

But hearken this! The tale unweaves as such:

Amid the sheets and blankets of her bed

The Doyle wakes again, to comfort bright.

The sun shines from the casement by her head

O! What strange visions she had in the night!

But who was this?  This queen of Amazon

With whom she did relate, and who is quite

Familiar to her mind?  She thinks upon

Her dream, and suddenly all is aright.

For she is Laura, freshly rose from sleep—

So all the time, The Doyle was not real!

'Twas but a vision of her mind so deep,

And strange emotions that she did not feel.

So hear me, all ye weary souls who dream

Of rest, either from toil or too much wine—

That, as The Doyle, all’s not as it seems,

For life and dreams too often do entwine!

Alright, I think I've gotten that out of my system for the time being.  Thanks for humouring me! Hahahahahaha....I crack myself up.