Harrol, How Your Wounds are Small
Harrol was a saucy lad,
Of grins and jeers and gropes.
The coin he gave to the common lass
He won from common dopes.
But the local girls knew Harrol well
In daytime and the dark,
And though he had their fun, all told,
His actions left their mark.
No girl for evening fun was found
When Harrol had his ale.
But what about Harrol's small wounds?
In here you'll find the tale.
He took his drink and stumbled out
Into the darkened wood.
For a Fae wench he gave a shout.
Though it did him no good
Until he tripped, and fell, and cursed -
So blinded by the dark.
And though his luck had seemed the worst
He soon sang like a lark
"This is the fur of a Fae maid!"
He said in slurred voice!
"She's huge and limp, and fair for play!"
He made the only choice.
His trousers down, his passions flared
He groped with drunken hand.
And when his love did not respond,
He began as he dared.
But it was not a Fae, you know
That Harrol laid with then.
The bear did not wake to tell him so.
'Til Harrol tried again.
He got a scratch, a bite, a paw.
Not strange for Harrol's deeds.
But in the moonlight, when he saw
He should have taken heed.
He stumbled back to town,
And no pants to his name.
And knew that he must soon repent.
Before the teasing came.
Harrol said he fought a bear,
And stretched his tale so tall
But many seemed to take it true.
But though his wounds were small.