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
