-=Dark_Angel=-, P.I.27 Jan 2004

Ahh, Winturd. The white season; nestled moistly 'tween the green and the browne... Speaking of browne, I daresay your butterfly is not the only frozen tear in heaven. Have you not heard "The Winturd Tale of Sir Donald Nudesby"? It runs thus, in the Common Tongue...

Footprints linger on the lawn
Where Nudesby trod ere crack of dawn
Then out beyond the seemly parts
and in amongst the compost carts.

There to clench in wooden shack
Ere sweating brow gave way to cack
And buttocks wiped with little care
Leave brownly marks upon his chair.

But footprints leave, and don't return
And Nudesby's fate may cause concern
Young children ought to shield their ears
Whilst women fight to hold back tears:

Through winturd night, and morning frost
It seems that Nudesby has been lost
'tis little wonder that he froze -
Sir Donald Nudesby wore no clothes!