On the Road to Liastineg

[makaalz]

"Quite a concoction," marveled the jester, as he
fingered his stolen ring of webs
Procured from a hapless lord of a forgotten city on the
shores of the Thames, surrounded by
forests and hills and the crazy Celts (in their crazy kilts)
"Mind if I get the recipe?"

"Not at all," the bartender
Told him: "I myself learnt it from a dream sent
to me from beyond the grave
by that ancient god Bacchus."
(This was untrue, the jester thought:
Everyone knows a god can't die.)

"Nine times did he tell me this recipe -
Eight did I ignore him.
It was only on the ninth," said the bartender,
"that I realized who I was talking to."
"Fascinating" is what the jester returned:
"But what does this have to do with my ring?"

"Your ring? Ah, yes. It's made of dreams, you know.
Children's fantasy spun by a thousand-handed hag
in the lowest cave
of the highest mountain.
This is where I met Bacchus:
He drunkens himself on her tears."

"Fascinating," said the jester,
Once for each of the hag's hands.
"Fascinating."
And once for her fingers and her teeth -
"Fascinating."

(Far away, in the corner was
a bard listening as he sang;
"He'll die in two days," the ring told him -
"So why don't we go somewhere
together")