Quatrains

Sister Sarah, born on Sunday
Harlequin dress stained red
Nine times nine it took to slay
The beast with severed head

British bishop, regal and tall,
Chants Catholic cacophony
Muted nun, exposed in the hall,
Walks on rose petals silently

Overseas there’s a feeling
Which describes all of the times
Standing there with senses reeling
Stumbling over her rhymes

Quick boots never tarry
(A message for the queen)
In leather satchel carry
The way before the mean

The sun has set upon the son
His noble birth forgotten
Fame decried by the dark one
Who burned the field of cotton

Vapors arise like myths of old
To cloud the bonny Brae
Confounding eastward travels bold
Too late to save this day

Five swords in six sheaths deep
The gilded glove goes wanting
On perilous perch a crow doth sleep
The sheep below are counting

Storm clouds darken the skies
Howling hounds make nervous
The horse of the queen who buys
Her subjects’ loyal service

A hundred head of cattle
Comprise a victory feast
For both sides of the battle
(Whose bones will matter least?)

Green and grey these armies clash
With armor bright and polished
On other shores they feel the lash
And see their hopes demolished

Trading summer songs for wine
The minstrel travels far
In his cape and white silks fine
He plays before the Czar

The saddest song of Sarah true
Her royal gown so stained
She fell before her traitors knew
The dragon yet remained

Fire burned the red tree last
And charred the land beneath
Ten years and two since passed
And roses grow in a wreath

A sack of gold, the bounty paid
By statesmen who were hating
To find a thief with treasure weighed
The hangman still is waiting

Twelve cats hidden in a row
Of five by six by seven
Concealed among the mistletoe
That points the way to Heaven

Much attention should be spared
To glean the wheat from chaff
Lest ye be trapped by he who dared
To bake these pies and laugh