The Biting of Pots

Oh how I hate the biting of pots as first my morning draws.

Consciousness holding on, only the barest of its tiny clawing paws

Head is pounding and water dripping from sore eyes.

Damn to think its not from a long night of riding oh so sweet thighs.

Oh how I hate the biting of pots.

Yet this is an honorable task that must be done by one kin.

As we have no slaves or bonded servants here at our very humble little Druid's inn.

Now loudly the pots speak ,to remind of tasty blessings, that last night were within.

And of the strange pleasures they offer of a secret Smithy’s Zen.

As one caresses their slick and sometimes shiny metal skin.

Still I know that even after a long night of soak.

That burn in food from cooking over the fire will be harder than an Oak.

Yet now at last this biting task by me must be done.

Before the blessing of clan's next meal is begun.

So now I bite into this wet and dripping  task.

Till each metal friend is clean and shining as if made of glass.

Our's  may be but a clan of very few.

Unless the Familiars and the Fae count as true.

Then there are the wild things from across the shallow woods.

That come to the inn each night to beg a crust of its sweet goods.

Even small and ever old, the clan does its best to run a good and honest inn.

Were the old Gods and Goddesses are always welcomed to descend.

And lift a horn with our Ancient Druids that are still their only true kin.

And when Night gives to Sun the biting of pots will surely start again.

The Druid King