
With toasts and with song and with spilled ale
We recount the day's long battle
As we rode down at dawn
Upon the camp with no calm
For it had vanished in the darkness fore
And the bile and sweat and lifeblood poured
Onto the fertile soil and cold stone
And the orangeglow village
Became our new home
And the locals didn't seem to frown
For they poured us the ale that we spilled as we sang
And they played the music to sing by
And they figured our gold
Was as good as any other
And they near hid their fear of our blades
While we laughed and launched tales that will one day be written
While we sang and gave honors all 'round
We kept a wary eye
On our newest good friends
And kept another on that ridge from which we rode down
Obviously ... this was a follow-up to the previous thingy that I posted.
-Bryk