Ibrahim was tall and dark, one look from his eyes
Was enough to surprize, even the bravest of foes.
But shallow was he, and vain and full of insecurity.
His heart, wasted, on the hand maiden fair
With the big bust and golden hair.
So when she came wondering the corridors that night
Ibrahim was ready to take her, to make her his.
He straightened his hose, and his tuinic of roux
And pursed his full lips at those two eyes of blue.
“And what can I bid thee oh Queen of my heart”
He fancied at Ayesha the harlot, the tart.
As Isha whispered the details of greed, his blood ran cold
This was treason indeed. But a quick gain could be had and he needed new clothes
as he noticed a fresh little hole in his hose.
She backed him up against the corridor wall, he puffed out his chest
and stood six feet tall, then her hand fell beneath his old tunic, he whimpered,
Sighed at the plan and continued to kiss her.
A poet there was staying close to the castle, In the pub called the dagger
he’s drank with him, sung with him, composed from the heart
For this girl, this harlot, this strawberry tart
who now had her hands fully down his old hose…and what she was doing…
Oh Lord only knows.
“Will you help, will you do it?” Her desperate cry.
“If you don’t stop then the answer is aye”.
We”ll leave these two here dear reader, in the dark,
For speculation of occurences will sure make their mark…;-)
Going to take a break and post some of my other works in the week. Though I will be continuing with these chronicles when I can figure out how to use pages on this page.