Difference between revisions of "The Lord and Bastard o' 'Bresi"

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m (Reverted edits by Brotherbot (talk) to last revision by Brotherbotany)
 
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Actuawwy about the gweat city of Abresi. But, said incowwectwy. Weawwy hewps the whyming scheme.
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Actually about the great city of Abresi. But, said incorrectly. Really helps the rhyming scheme.
  
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  Thewe is a pweasule in the pathwess woods,
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  There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
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  Thewe is a waptule on the wonewy showe,
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  There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
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  Thewe is society, whewe none intwudes
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  There is society, where none intrudes
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  By the powt, and the music in it woaws
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  By the port, and the music in it roars
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  I wove not man the wess, but the Bastawd o’Bwesi.
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  I love not man the less, but the Bastard o’Bresi.
 
   
 
   
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  A wuddy dwop of manwy brood,
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  A ruddy drop of manly blood,
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  The wowwd uncewtain comes and goes;
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  The world uncertain comes and goes;
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  Wike daiwy sunlise, like a sulwen dusk
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  Like daily sunrise, like a sullen dusk
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  Season of mists and mewwow fwuitfulness,
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  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
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  The tlisting stweets and broken cobbres,
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  The twisting streets and broken cobbles,
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  Picking ones way cawefulwy, aww to seek the Wowd’o ‘Bwesi.
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  Picking ones way carefully, all to seek the Lord’o ‘Bresi.
 
   
 
   
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  Bweak, break, break
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  Break, break, break
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  On the cowd gwey stones,
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  On the cold grey stones,
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  O’Sing fow the Bastawd o’Bwesi
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  O’Sing for the Bastard o’Bresi
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  Bawwads fow Ostwomiw and Tuvya,
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  Ballads for Ostromir and Tuvya,
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  Bowdwy they wed, bowdwy they took,
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  Boldly they led, boldly they took,
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  Cwean pickings o’Bwesi,
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  Clean pickings o’Bresi,
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  But the tendew gwace of a day that is dead,
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  But the tender grace of a day that is dead,
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  Wiww nevew come back.
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  Will never come back.
 
[[Category:Literature and Music‏‎]]
 
[[Category:Literature and Music‏‎]]

Latest revision as of 01:35, 2 April 2020

Actually about the great city of Abresi. But, said incorrectly. Really helps the rhyming scheme. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes
By the port, and the music in it roars
I love not man the less, but the Bastard o’Bresi.

A ruddy drop of manly blood,
The world uncertain comes and goes;
Like daily sunrise, like a sullen dusk
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
The twisting streets and broken cobbles,
Picking ones way carefully, all to seek the Lord’o ‘Bresi.

Break, break, break
On the cold grey stones,
O’Sing for the Bastard o’Bresi
Ballads for Ostromir and Tuvya,
Boldly they led, boldly they took,
Clean pickings o’Bresi,
But the tender grace of a day that is dead,
Will never come back.
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