Tip:
Highlight text to annotate it
X
[Music]
In wayfarer's worlds out west was once a man, A man I come not to bury, but to praise.
His name was Geoffrey Lebowski call'd, yet Not called, excepting by his kin.
That which we call a knave by any other name Might bowl just as sweet. Lebowski, then,
Did call himself 'the Knave', a name that I,
Your humble chorus, would not self-apply In homelands mine; but, then, this Knave was
one From whom sense was a burden to extract,
And of the arid vale in which he dwelt, Also dislike in sensibility;
Mayhap the very search for sense reveals The reason it inspires me to odes.
(In couplets first, and then a sonnet brave As prologue to the tale of this the Knave.
Behold him, then, a-tumbling soft in sand To pledge his love immortal to the land.)
We stray now from fair Albion and from France And see no Queen of *** songs and cheers
And in an angel's city take our chance For stupefying tales to take our ears.
To war on Arab kings acoast we go, Needing a man of times, though hero not;
Hear me call him not hero; what's in a hero? Sometimes there's a man, your prologue's thought.
The Knave, though scarcely man of honour'd grace,
Nor god Olympian, nor yet employ'd, Was nonetheless for all his time and place,
The man befits the circle he's enjoy'd. A man of lazy ways, of epic sloth;
But, losing train of thought, I've spake enough!