We walk at
dusk where lake and land collide,
a bunch of
flighty poets, fey and airy,
ignoring –
as is English, customary –
these
words of warning from our native guide:
“In
forests north of Balaton she hides,
a wild and
furtive naked woodland faerie,
seducing
those that stray, and the unwary,
who wander
lost upon her mountainsides.”
We shrug,
harrumph: “That doesn’t sound that bad!
What
harm’s a small seduction between friends?
You’re
overdramatizing, my dear chap!”
and trek
off, North, like shop-soiled Galahads.
Predictably,
this witless story ends
with
fewer boots and one more dose of clap.
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