Even though the trip was naught but six days,

It felt as it if were four score.

Our motley crew was berated in innumerable ways,

And the conditions returning from Canterbury were poor.

The rain waged a relentless war of attrition,

It sought to corrode the group’s morale,

Most had their convictions taxed,

As we navigated through the verdant chaparral.

Vituperative spilled forth from select indignant,

Water became accelerant, words malignant,

Plebiscite turned to unanimous vote,

The vox populi demanded shelter.

Donning makeshift obsidian capote,

We dashed from the mellifluous swelter.

Refuge was commandeered from a dilapidated abode.

At the very least, it bestowed,

A sense of tranquility from natural perdition,

That the outside strove to erode.

So began my mission,

To pontificate the positive through the perils,

Those reputable amongst the expedition,

Sow the seeds of gaiety by ways of carol,

They retold how those stricken with affliction,

Had been cured by the late Becket’s blessing,

Though no jubilant diction or saintly benediction,

Could keep the atmosphere from depressing,

‘Tis a shame, ‘tis a shame!

Given the fact that the trip there,

Was far more radiant than a Croix de querre.

Even more enjoyable than a local faire,

‘Tis a shame, what a shame!

Contentment permeated the air,

I suppose even that is subject to wear and tear.

Dreary conditions could not abate,

The pious duo, the Parson and the Cleric,

Whether riding or stagnant, they were always elate,

One with ethic, the other with rhetoric.

It’s an interesting relationship that these to share,

Neither one carried a heavy dosage of flair,

As both were true adherents of the Lord’s prayer.

The Cleric’s wisdom astounded the churchman,

At his age, he was already a paragon of sagacity,

And though they imparted many existential span,

The Parson couldn’t help but view his associate with pity.

Emaciated and wan from days of tireless study,

The devout Catholic brought it upon himself to enact a plan,

And so every day during luncheon,

The churchman’s portions wound up in a student’s hand,

Underneath our transitory lodging,

The Parson and Cleric entreated the group to coalesce,

Their stories of the Gospel and the wisdom of Old,

Put the collective anxiety to rest.

Even the Chaucer was so bold as to ask of their savvy,

To this I can attest.

There were two in our party, however,

With a relationship diametrically opposed,

The Sergeant at the Law and Pardoner,

Polar contraries when juxtaposed.

One was a man behind a justice-strewn shell,

Commissioned to work beneath the King.

The other, a hypocrite and ne’er-do-well,

Whose fraudulent industry was in full swing.

On occasion the Pardoner would stray from the group,

As we passed by villages, he performed his dearly dealings,

The obsidian lawyer was never far behind,

Jotting down notes of what he would list in the legal proceedings.

Wising up to the shadow of the law over his shoulder,

The indulgence-dealer became more surreptitious,

He wouldn’t allow one man to become a boulder,

If confronted, he’d even pass of his sales as fictitious.

In queue, they’d use various cliques as auspices,

Grimacing at each other, should they catch a glimpse,

Though, the Pardoner was still focused on future prospects,

The Man of Law was looking to iron out illicit crimps,

Even during our brief respite,

They still gazed at each other with spite,

And if the Pardoner flew to another excuse the attorney deemed trite,

A furious conflict was sure to ignite.

On our return to our proper borders,

I loitered by the door, collected the stories, and sped to my quarters,

The very first was the Miller’s, dashed with inebriated scrawl,

And I dare say, this tale was the worst of all,

Even the Summoner dothed credit where credit was due,

But this corpulent loudmouth did nothing but misconstrue,

Aggrandizing himself and belittling others,

You’d swear everyone was a swine and he, a pristine fawn.

Plus, his grotesque deriding of the Parson and his brother,

Forced me to restrain a technicolor yawn.

Then came the nonsensical parables,

Obviously plagiarized from Aesop,

‘Twas the only thing that made it bearable,

But, at this juncture, it was already a flop.

Even though it took naught but six minutes to read,

It felt as if it were four score,

Just another reason why he’s the one person I abhor,

Maybe this tripe festers in a crevice for all eternity,

This is something that even my enemies shouldn’t see.

True to the axiom, I inadvertently saved the best for last,

As the Knight’s tale rung true to the myths of my past,

At the very least, it did well to placate the ire,

That the Miller’s tale set afire.

As it began, my lungs filled with the crisp winds,

Of King Arthur’s Court,

My heart leapt and fell with the exposition,

As I’m sure what his purport.

I could feel the energy course through my veins,

Once the warband gallivanted to victory,

And when one of the commendable characters announced his leave,

I was wholly moved by his valedictory.

The Knight’s fable swung some roundabouts,

Something the other recounts failed to do in any amount,

Out of the lot in our travels that I found dependable,

This is the lone story I’d put on a pedestal.

Upon the second run-through, much to my surprise,

Each knight, damsel, and member of the hegemony,

Was an allegory for our own lives!

It became abundantly clear when the most rambunctious knight,

Had a pronounce blemish on his nose.

So, with this most auspicious story,

A banquet, I do enclose.