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[personal profile] jeanvieve
By his request, for Bain's almost 40th birthday:

One darker night in Pennsylvania hills
The sky was gathering clouds, and threatening rain
Sent everyone to batten down their tents
When Bain arrived at last, fresh off the plane
His squires arrayed behind, to view events
And meet the fair folk, lake dwellers,
Puckish denizens of the woodsy deep.
With long strides and arms wide
His loud voice calls, banishing sleep -
Jet-lagged, weighed down with sandy eyes
His smile would not diminish ounces,
Dimples deep, to make the maidens sigh,
He greets them all and on old friends pounces.
Laughing, rolling, thanks it were not day!
For sunshine's blessing not a soul would want
As heavily bedecked, long sleeved, woolens frayed,
All warm against the chilly night, and flaunt
The slaggards lying still a-bed
For who would not wake to greet the mighty Bain?

All adventurous, stirring heroes one and all
Our bully boys paraded every night
The Maenids themselves know no wilder games
A Bacchanalian feast of lust, with every bite
Of life a little black book fills with names;
Of russet hair, and shining gold, and brown
Recruiting eagerly for racing skiffs, but missing
Feminine allures, so dragging smiles down
The skirt-clad squires drink, and dodge the kissing.
But what can drink engender, a challenge to the pride!
The wildness rises! A kiss of leather teases
And shirts are doffed to mount that edgy ride
And lost, whilst torture mayhap pleases?
The chastening stripes upon the flanks will stay
And morning brings to light contrition
A plan is hatched! A rumor of the new play
Some woad to cover up the night's condition.

Battle sings: By day the fray, by night the lash.
Distilling spirits dance throughout the crowd
Bench after bench, in mild intoxicated unity
Our heroes sit, and sometimes laugh too loud
As single malt from pain provides impunity
Then all the muses trip upon his tongue
As Bain extolls the beauty of the night,
Of the bottle, the company, the music sung,
Every girl Athena to his sight
And softly waves he back, hand falling
Over the shoulders of his kith, his kin,
That carry home our hero, farewells are calling,
But Bain hears nothing, sleeping sweet as sin.
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