[rabbixl]

Settle yourselves,
at my feet,
said the minstrel,
and I will tell you a story.
Come ye down here!
To my grassy knoll,
and I will tell you,- of the old and the now.

I know you will never be tired,
when I,
the narrator,
gives words to the stories
that was told since the morn' of suns first rays,
and will be uttered forever, till the ending of days.

Come ye down here!
Come, and settle yourselves.
Come, and pay heed to my voice.
I will tell you 'bout princes, princesses and kings,
'bout queens, and the knights of the realm
- and of terrible dragons of course.

Whilst he spoke, he suppressed
an emotion
or two...
to tell them, it all was a lie.
He was sent by the king to enthral their minds,
so that none could discern what was true.

For the minstrel was not in his heart a true bard,
he had studied how to capture a throng,
it was not because spirit,
surged and gushed through his veins,
that he chanted these stirring songs.

It was such that the king,
kept his arms in a wring,
and the king needed someone to threaten.
He would not comprehend
that real sovereignty,
is a sacred trust - transferred from ones peers,
not an heirloom to be endowed.

As the minstrel reclined,
and lied 'bout the crown,
'bout the knights, and 'bout damsels and dragons.
A well made of tears gushed up in his heart,
but to quell it,
he was all too able.


"Put it on the agenda!
Let the people assume!
That my rule is the best one, there is.
Let them turn to the polls,
and elect from the crowd,
As long as my men count the ballots!"

I am king,
I shall rule!
I'm the natural born!
It is destiny I am the ruler!
But the king knew too well,
in the depth of his heart,
that the minstrel was liable to commute this devise

Thus,
the minstrel would have to be gagged,
thought the king
at a point in time,
none too distant.
For the minstrel, did know,
though he was not a bard,
the reality!
The king concluded: His voice has to die!

Thought the king in his heart:
'I will make a revolt,
let it seem like my enemy's bidding.
I'll destroy every minstrel,
yea, all who can sing,
what the real truth is and remaineth.'

"I will grind everyone,"
envisioned the king,
"into dust that my children will walk on,
every one who may fathom my feebleness,"
And those who may once
In the future know,
I'll keep using the oldest of weapons,
The one that they call Prop Agenda.

But the king in his fervent,
desire to rule,
had a flaw, which would be his demise.
He forgot though minstrels may lose their voice,
they usually know how to write...

Lars-Toralf Storstrand, july 20©03