Gather ’round the fire, friend,
we’re not such a scary lot.
Sure, that one’s been condemned a witch,
and the drunk one here’s a sot.
But we’re nomads, braced against the world,
adventurers rare and true,
and the fire here’s so warm, my friend,
and we cook a lovely stew.
I’m a bard of many songs, you see,
for you I could weave a tale,
of golden knights and silver ghosts,
and fair ladies of the vale.
You’re a stranger ’round here, aren’t you?
But that’s just fine with us.
See, we’re vagabonds and castaways,
the roughest of the rough.
But don’t shy away, come sit by me;
I’ll strum you a mellow hymn,
and together we will share this toast,
until our bellies brim.
When I wrote this, I pictured a bard sitting on a log by the fire, surrounded by nomads and strumming his lute. It’s yet another piece for the project I’ve been writing. This is just a “rough draft”, so I might tweak it in the future.