Now some at Fort Weyr they never complain
But of this bronzerider, they did endlessly flame
Listen to this tale, of a rider who never did any right,
We wondered why he wasn't named a blight!
Flyin's his living, it's not just for fun,
He's not very anxious, 'less a bet's to be won,
And as for ledge landings, at night in the dark,
As he said this morn, "You'll need more 'en ten marks."
One day, flying down from t'weyr, our rider did frown
A quick look around, opps, no straps fastened down.
His bronze was raring, just to get to the lake,
Then he heard a shout, << Hold your breath, for Faranth's
sake! >>
Coughing and spluttering, he crawled from the water,
Rubbing his eyes, he saw the Steward's daughter
And loud in his mind, his lifemate's thoughts rang:
<< No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, DANG! >>
The Steward's daughter and he, well they had glorious fun
Frolicking around in the lake and the sun,
But Threadfall drew near and their time did run out,
And they both parted at his Wingleader's shout.
He sat on his bronze awaiting the sign,
For his hot klah mug, he did fardling pine.
Down came t'Wingleader's arm, his dragon did cough,
"Gor Blimey," said he, as they leapt and took off.
He flew over Boll, a moody sky of grey mixed with blue
Soaring and flaming, admiring the view,
When a noise he did hear, he turned round about,
There was t'Wingleader turning blacker than gout!
The Wingleader had signed 'lower' and he'd gone higher,
Drifted o'er to starboard and bothered someone's fire.
The riders at Fort all say that he's green,
But he rides the darkest bronze you've ever seen!
*Betweening* from Fall, Thread nought but grey ash
His bronze's rough roar brought up the 'stone mash:
Emerging, the stuff flew straight in his face
Up came his dinner and the last of his grace!
He landed back safe at Fort and much to his wrath,
Someone else had beaten him to a hot steamy bath.
With a grimace he looked, and much to his joy
It was a w'man and no innocent Hold boy.
Later that night, our Rider, named B'ash,
An awkward young chappie with a ginger moustache,
Said, "Chaps I must drown all my sorrows in gin,
I've been twelve hours aground and I can't get it in."
The moral of this story is easy to see,
A dragonrider you never should be,
So stay on the ground and get a woman or three
An' come out ev'r night, to get drunk with B'ash an' me.
