Monday, 11 June 2012

Holy Grail Poem

Sir Bors achieved the Holy Grail and he took it home with him.
And it was naught but a handled beaker made of hammered tin;
And he set it on his sideboard to jostle with clutter and mould
And the blessed beaker hoarded its magic until his life was old.
For that's when he took it down again, and wondered at its design
And said 'I've owned this all these years, and forgot that it never was mine.'
And he polished it up and held it, and took it and threw it outside,
And soon as he'd done so he laughed in release, and lay himself down and died.

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