Composed in the woods of Satans Kingdom at moonrise, December 21st, 2005.
Weary hunter at my head
Turning moon at my left shoulder
Ere I find my way to bed
The wine is gone, the wind grown colder
Where I ply my maple pole
The crusted snow has gone to seed
Come, Midwinter, make me whole
Bind the holy to their creed
Boon was drunk as a skunk when he wrote that little poem. Yep, he stumbled in from the woods and then proceeded to lose one of the lenses from his glasses. All thanks to his bottle of whiskey that he oh-so-selfishly refused to share with his darling sister, (she of the nubian variety).
You know i could delete that comment if i wanted. But I’m a nice brother. I accept my percieved shortcomings.
The nubulus does not lie.
It is not exactly the most complicated poem ever, though, is it?