An Ode to The East’s West
Upon attending this fine institution, I have discovered a boy, nay a man of similar ilk. A Norfolk man no less, and we have forged a most unholy alliance. His words moving, my art immovable. Robert’s lexicon Sisyphus and my craft the boulder, endlessly we travel up the mountain of creation. Perhaps, unlike the Greek mythology we will reach the mighty peak. As a dedication to my newfound brother-in-arms, I have tried my hand at the art of the wordsmith. To you, Robert Daniel West:
An Ode to The East’s West
What a pleasure to see the green fingers of Norfolk so far from home,
Those digits doth write the lyrics of our enchanting creations.
Robert Daniel West a man, nay a mountain cut from soil and incest,
His very soul sores far beyond our unbroken, flat pastures.
Upon seeing his ample, grass-stained hands,
I knew our additional fingers would be joined in friendship.
For his mother is my grandfather’s sister, not only that but his son’s wife.
An alliance forged in blood and filth.
Our wellies have trod the steps of Nelson,
And followed the tracks of horses, which have led us to great London.
Now we must forgo the meadows bursting with the harvest,
And plough through the smog and opiates of this new, strange land.
Through the great fields of Brixton, we do promenade,
A man with a spare ankle makes the ultimate striding partner.
We rise at dawn, even the fog has not yet stirred,
Into battle, we ride, with our heads held high to combat monster and mentor alike.
Hark, a beast doth scratch upon our dark and oaken door,
What’s that a shadow looming across our hallowed halls.
‘Black shuck’ Robert does whisper upon my pricked ear,
‘Nay’ I sigh, ‘I’m afraid it is far worse than that.’
I lean in, and take his many fingers in my hands,
‘It is yet another case study video,’ the hairs on his arms raised like a startled dog.
‘No,’ he shouts in vain, ‘how could that be, we have just defeated the last,’
I wipe a solitary tear from mine own eye and rise from the dusty timbers.
Robert stands shakily upon his ankles three,
We draw our hefty weapons of quill and brush, ready to strike.
To the door we do scurry, the cumbersome beast’s aromas filling our nasal passages,
My hand aquiver upon the rusty knob of door.
Clang, the door does slam against the aged brick,
Our eyes grow wide, as we fix upon the eerie, yellow gaze of the varmint.
Together we strike, quill and brush alike,
‘Prepare to meet your maker,’ Robert wails.
The beast was brought down with a crash and a thud,
I grasp its almighty, shaggy head and raise it aloft in triumph.
Its monstrous body lies cleft and twain,
As we stride away, wiping the stains of battle from our glee-ridden faces.
Another day, another triumph,
What will the morning sparrow bring, who can say?
All we are assured of is that we are,
Normal for Norfolk.
Anyway, cheers for reading that, I promise I’ll leave the writing to Rob in the future.