I receive a poem in my email every day. Today’s was written by George Gordon Byron, aka Lord Byron.
It’s title: So We’ll Go No More a-Roving
There’s no sense in me reprinting the words here. I just like the title. That’s the entire purpose of this post.
Without a poem is no thought.
I give you mine,
complimentary of complementers,
suppliant of supple suppliers,
mine, all mine,
alley mine,
ally oops.
Go no more a-Roving?
Red-Rover, Red-Rover,
Send Karl right over.
Let him break against our line,
let him find our hands held,
the line itself held against him,
let him not break through us.
Still, his legs his run carries; speeding up, a momenta of mass,
as he hurls himself against us,
a cannon shot against our links.
The line of arms, shouldered,
buckled to feel Rover’s blow,
for he spews hardest hot air,
blows sweet words in our ears.
We hear his sweating, his lies,
his blood outpouring in heat,
as he would have us loose heart,
lose hope, yield to his bursts.
A-roving, I have been a-roved!
and shall not play court fool,
shall not prance to his dance,
nor let Red Rover over me run.