Time to inflict unasked for penance with some seriously mediocre poetry.....

Arthur once had his Guinevere
The Capulet his Montague
Brunhilde for her Seigfried roasted
Troilus and Cressida a great love boasted.

Tristan and Isolde were ill-fated
Marc Antony and Cleo Rome did smite
Christine and the Phantom upon the stage
Rhett and Scarlet as the fires raged.

But is there e'er a love so dear,
as the Irish for his beer?
Or the Pole with vodka clear?
Whiskey and bourbon by the gallon,
Beautiful as tree of mallon.

But tis Lent, and shame on me,
for writing love and liquor poetry.
The Muse once started, hath but sputtered
And of such things I will no more mutter.
The poem be poor, for the brain is addled
upon a restbed the icebear be saddled,
as the ursid's eyes that wearily blink
and who waits til Easter for a drink.

JMJ
Well technically you might get snockered on Sunday. That's not part of Lent, you know.

Well, a little bit of doggerel can be an amusing and refreshing thing to read now and then. It's good to know that a man is not pretentious, after all.

Thank ye lads and lassies...

Technically yes, buttermilk during the week, and whiskey on a Sunday.
But for true feasting, I will wait until our Lord has Risen.

Of course, if someone offers me a pint of bitter, (that sensation being very Lenten) perhaps on the feast of St. Joseph I might imbibe.

But in this Lent,
one true lament,
is that winter here,
appears to be
spent.
To pray and fasting,
this bear on bended knees,
to have bequeathed an icy blast,
to have yet but one last little freeze.

So when upon the lepine trail,
that petrine pagan and his fuzzy tail,
comes bounding through the sprouting heather,
finds himself rigid in brass monkey weather.

Charming and fun.