Falstaff and Me
The Unsown Field: Cantos 1–2
October 11, 2019

Once, on a cool and clear Walpurgis Night,
there ambled on his way an idle lad,
who from the northern fields was Geoffrey hight.

An old dirt trail he wandered feeling sad,
but now he saw the time was getting late.
“I best hightail it home, lest Mom be mad.”

But turning ‘round, he felt a terror great:
The way behind was not the way he came!
Instead, a strange new path was his new fate.

“Well crap!” quoth he, “This doesn’t look the same.
How far I went! The vinca patch I’ve crossed,
and now I’m S. O. L. in parts less tame!”

In childish ire he took a stone and tossed
it at an unsuspecting elder tree,
but making little difference… He was lost.

“What rotten little imp throws stones at me!”
cried out a voice who recently had slept.
Quoth he: “Wha’thaf’!!! A green-skinned girl I see!”

“That hurt, you thoughtless hooligan,” she wept.
Quoth he: “It serves you right for sleeping there.
Sleep in a house! For nature never kept

a person well for long without a care
before—” “Shut up,” quoth she: “you stupid crook,
or put ‘em up and fight me if you dare!”

Offended now, another rock he took
and threw it hard at her… The tree it hit.
For missing, Geoffrey had a sheepish look.

This rock as if by some ironic wit
had ricocheted and hit her on the head.
In tears she winced, quoth she: “You wretched git!

I’ll see that you’ll regret this till you’re dead!”
But even as she canted out her verse,
Nature began to interject instead.

For Elder Mother woke… and things got worse.
“What pebble-brain throws rocks at my poor tree?”
Quoth Geoffrey: “That girl! Her! She tried a curse

against your tree — I stopped her — It was she,
that kale-skinned cabbage girl, who threw the rocks —
who, sore and petty, threw the rocks at thee.”

“Why Burve, I should have known! I ort to box
your ears, but that I’ve done so many times.
No weas’ling out of this, you wiley fox—

I’ll punish you for real, with magic chimes
and ancient secret spells. And as for you:”
(to Geoffrey now she spake) “Been dropping dimes?

Well never mind. How rarely and how few
there are who in sincerity delight
to tell the truth! What good you do!

So on your way, you darling little wight.
Innocent eyes should not see what’s to come
of disrespectful Burve, who’ll rue this night!”

All this our hero heard while Burve stayed mum.
But now in protest quoth she: “Elder mother—”
“—Zip it, you no-account, or’ll maim you some!

Now where was I? Ah, yes, unto the other:
Go back to your where you live, you sweet hors d’oeurve.”
Awaiting now for Hyldemoer’s druther

for penance disproportionate, poor Burve —
her green face turning gray and mouth agape —
stood trembling; thought she: “This I don’t deserve!”

And thus our spineless hero did escape.

That elder mother Geoffrey handled like a boss!
And value in a lesson? Such he lent
to Burve, that green-skinned girl, who was so cross.

So onward through the night our hero went,
when through the trees what spied he? Circus lights!
(or carnival?) — with tickets near a tent.

So tempted Geoffrey was to see the sights
— the hucksters, dunk tanks, clowns in motley hues,
the acrobats and pretty girls in tights —

To stay or go? No question which to choose!
He had no money for the ticket price,
but there are other ways to ‘scape the dues…

“I say it nought as if to say it twice,”
quoth ticketmaster. “Here your spirits keep.
Come in, my boy, our fair does fair entice!

You need no cash; the gate you may o’erleap
(at least this way) into our roaming park
where sounds the music, notes of soul to reap.

Try solve our house of mirrors for a lark!
Attempt to Find the Lady if you can!
Why even you can win! Just…cross…the…mark…”

Misgiving struck him ‘bout the ticket man.
The gate was shaped like gaping jaws.
Seemed evil, this amusement caravan.

But just because a Hamlet hems and haws,
that doesn’t mean that he’s nobody’s fool.
Our hero Geoffrey often oohs and aahs

when triggered by what things he thinks are cool.
“I wonder what’s their ruse?” he thought. Alas!
It’s time my story took this fool to school.

He had no trouble leaping o’er the pass.
“I’ll just turn back if things get too suspicious.”
Beyond, Bohemian music played on brass.

“Overreacted. Nothing here’s malicious.“
He looked behind; he still could see the gate.
“Indeed, this cotton candy tastes delicious!”

He sampled it, looked back, “It’s not too late.”
The gate behind him seemed a little blurry,
but still within his reach, at any rate.

“I’ll stay a little longer, there’s no hurry.”
He tried the house of mirrors, ferris wheel,
and even rode inside an antique surrey.

“It’s hard to say just how this makes me feel,
but there’s the gate, though even further now.
When goes the fun, away from here I’ll steal.”

But each attraction, like a faithless vow
still trusted, pulled him further in its grip.
“Oh god! I must get out of here, but how?”

Into a still his life began to drip.
The gate, as if by some enchanted cloak,
fell out of sight to end his one-way trip.

Out of this lethargy he briefly broke
to see the park’s true nature, then lost hope:
a kiln of children’s souls before the oak!

— that once distilled, god knows what ghouls would tope!
(I’m sure you think: “It’s Geoffrey’s own darn fault.
A gate like that — um, that’s a lot of ‘Nope’!”)

Will Geoffrey turn into some demon’s malt?