Writing prompt for 9/7/2016
One hundred years after the great war, people still sing the song of Framderick the undying, the great labradoodle who lead the people of Klof to victory over the rat armies of Kenputeris. Well, everyone wants YOU, poor traveling bard, to sing it for them. You hate this song SO MUCH, but it's your bread and butter, and you're almost ten minutes into your set. ...aaaannnd, there's the request.
“Of course. Of course they want Framderick. What group of
mud-streaked, smelly peasants does NOT want Framderick?” Patrick thought.
“There is not enough wine in this inn to convince me to sing it. There is not
enough wine in the KINGDOM. But, alas . . .”
Patrick strummed his lute. As the familiar chords shrivered
his spine, the crowd shouted until debris and a few cats fell out of the
overhanging thatch. He strummed a bit longer and watched as mothers of young
children, aghast, pulled them from the crowd and out the door, while the men –
oh, the familiar men, all old and wrinkled before their time so it was
impossible to tell one of thirty from one of seventy – pushed to the fore,
leering and elbowing each other in the ribs.
Patrick began to sing.
The floods of spring came early,
That dark and loathsome year.
The Klof bore mud and branches
Bringing yon Kenputeris near.
The rain, clouds shed, the
mountains fled
The villagers soaked their hats
When on the mats of floating wood
Came Mount Kenputeris’ fearful
rats!
Framderick! Framderick! To you
the nation calls!
Horribly, Patrick could see the crowd getting ready. Swelling to a man,
filling their lungs with air, sucking in the stinking fug of the inn, ready to
belch out their contribution. He scanned the room for sympathizers – and saw them.
A pack of frowning women, arms folded sternly across their breasts. They would
help. By the steely looks in their eyes, they would help. Frantically, he tried
to remember the order – and then sang, without missing a note:
Framderick! Framderick! While the
kings’ men lick
THE WALLS!
He breathed a sigh of relief. Though the men poked each other, laughing
terribly at their wit, Patrick and the women knew they’d won. Putting the
heavier strings on his lute had helped, Patrick thought. They make a heavier
sound.
But the battle was not over yet. Some of the men jeered at him as the
sound of what had won penetrated the alcohol. Others turned to their women-folk
and half-heartedly barked at them to leave.
Patrick continued:
The rats were black and ravenous,
They ate crop and home
Then they ate the fish of the
River Klop,
Spreading blood among the foam.
The kings’ men came a-hunting,
With sword and pike and spear
But they all got drunk and with a
hunk
The rats bit them in the rear!
The men, Patrick knew, were ready this time. Fewer had sung the
refrain, sucking in what air was left in the room, swelling for the chorus:
Framderick! Framderick! To you
the nation calls!
Framderick! Framderick! While the
kings’ men lick
COW STALLS!
Oh, the men shrieked at their misfortune as they knew once again they
had lost the battle, while the weaker ones passed out from the exertion of
shouting. A few began to throw bits of fallen thatch and empty mugs at Patrick,
but the innkeeper came with more beer, clinking the change the women had
collected.
“Come on, bard, sing it right! Sing it right or we’ll toss you in the
well!”
The shouter looked capable of performing that feat. Built like a brick
outhouse, but swaying slightly out of tune with the music. If Patrick were
lucky, he’d be on the floor before the next chorus. And he knew even though he
and the bulwark of women fought common cause, they would not intervene, having
enough to handle when their drunk husbands and fathers began to sober.
But the pups of the famed Framderick
Framderick, Whelper of a Thousand
Pups!
They caught the rats and chewed
them up
As Framderick birthed a dozen more!
The doodles then chased the
kings’ men
Out of the village, out of the
fen
Leaving a trail of reddened pats
Stained in the blood of a
thousand rats!
Framderick! Framderick! To you
the nation calls!
Framderick! Framderick! While the
kings’ men lick
SEAGULLS!
Tin plates sailed through the air as the crowd vomited displeasure and
warm beer. The women in the back of the room, arms still folded, smiled smugly,
and shouted at Patrick to stop. But they made no move when the men churlishly
turned their backs on them and urged Patrick to continue. The rhythm of the
song led him to the final verse.
When at last the food was gone,
The rats stole in to the babies’
cribs
But the pups of famed Framderick
Crushed the rats’ curved ribs.
Then the plague set in, with
terrible din
The women of the Klop did pray
But the pups of famed Framderick
Remained in the terrible fray.
Framderick! Framderick! To you
the nation calls!
Framderick! Framderick! While the
kings’ men lick
KINGS’ HALLS!
Oh, with the howling, Patrick thought the plague had returned, as
lamentations threatened to lift the thatch clear off the rafters. Men were
smashing chairs into the floor and climbing on tables, rending their clothes
and dancing naked, filling their mouths with beer and spraying it at the women
and at Patrick. But for every one man able to climb on the table and sloppily
spit half a mouthful of beer in the direction of their tormenters, there were
five stumbling about, knocking those more sober off the tables, upsetting tables,
smashing chairs over their compatriots’ heads until the sheriff burst into the
inn with six armed deputies, all bellowing for calm.
“You! Minstrel!” the sheriff yelled. “What doggerel stirs these fine
folk to such debauchery?” The sheriff, who gutted a man only last week for
urinating in the street in full view of the priest, rested his hand on the
pommel of his sword.
“Balls.”
One word from a weak voice at the bottom of a pile of drunken men, and
the room was in pandemonium once more.
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