The ballad of the unplanned traveller

Two knights set to travel

On a crusade, On a hunt

One is a sweetheart, the other a unt

 

They sought adventure, for fortunes they rode.

The road was long, their destiny untold.

In light they ride, In night they snored.

They fed of the land, their toilets were holes.

The people they came upon, grew stranger by the mile.

The food was that of which could make a grown man cry.

 

Their hopes of fortune stood steady.

Belief that the ages made them wise and witty.

 

Their sight faded faster as each day turned night.

Opportunties they met, never could satisfy their wisedom so bright.

 

Undeterred they pressed, none would ask direction.

Till they saw a sign, what language they question.

 

It looked arabic, it was heard as greek.

Our two heroes, had lost their will to speak.

 

What shall be done, the sweetheart did question.

The unt, as usual, f**k the directions.

 

Their confidence shook.

Their hope grew dimmer.

In a land so strange With people so queer

 

Like a thunder in the rain, a familar sound.

She speaks, she speaks, the unt was aloud.

 

Blessed angel, spoke the sweetheart His eyes sincere, his chivalry unforgotten

We beg thee time, we desperate of conversation.

 

She nods with smile, with grace that compliments beauty

"Where the hell are we?" The unt does his duty.

 

Unchanged, she describes a land that was once filled with holy.

Where water was milk, and bread was honey.

The promised land, wonders the sweet heart.

Las vegas thinks the unt.

 

They propose to find it wrong, They cry out for the answer

Walk with me, she turns. Pray that you might discover

 

Your travel has been long Your hair has gone through the ages

Your mind is weak and your memory has faded

 

This is home foolish knights Your travel was but a circle

Your ambitions great, your hopes and dreams immortal

 

You have braved the world for a fate much greater.

Your return, destiny had much you suffer.

 

Fortune the same, knowledge of gods.

Hopes the unchanged, adventures history records.

 

We are a but a few to speak in the ancient tongue

Lost are our childern, to filth and scum

 

Their speech, the sane voice of retards.

Their writ, the son's of b******s.

 

Of charm to repulsion

Of grace to ineptness

Of gentleness turned anger

Conversation now has lost all grandeur