Wouldst hear a tale of galaxys, beyond the ken of men-
And wars, and woes, and love affairs, and places I have been-
Wouldst hear a tale of Kings and Queens, of rogues and maidens fair?
If such, my friend, is thine desire, Why! Pray, pull up a chair.
Hmm? Where to start? A question that. Perhaps of ancient Troy-
And of the treachery of Greece, It's famous equine ploy.
Or, maybe Cleopatra, the queen of all the Nile,
Marc Antony, her lover, a Roman truly vile.
But no! The scribes have justice done to all those ancient deeds-
And written more than deeds deserve, or his'try even needs.
Perchance a tale of Tamerlane, the steppes and warlike tribe-
Or ancient Druidic spells and rites, too awful to describe.
Perhaps the human sacrifice, and altars red with blood-
And things as foul as any; Noah saw before the flood
Or mighty Roman legions marching foremost to the fray-
Even with their banners tattered, and their kit in disarray.
Of the lonely Roman eagle, resting in some warriors tent-
And some mother of the Empire, mourning, wonderin' where it went,
Perhaps some English mother, watching from the stormy shore,
Waiting for some long lost lover, or the son she'll see no more.
Or the heroes of the battlefield, who stormed the parapets-
Or faced the musketry and grape, and died with no regrets.
Or pioneers who left their homes, and all their friends behind
Died in their boots, and facing west; a'wonderin' what they'd find.
Perhaps the tale of hunters bold, who left their home and wife-
And roamed the prairies until old, and finally lost their life.
Or maybe heroes of our day, who faced the jungles dank-
And, Oh, the shame! Those who returned, were treated like they stank!
I could go, I could go back; for many deeds were done-
And many hero lived and died, with odes, as yet, unsung.
And so I write, and so some read; but, oh, to what avail-
The multitude shall never heed; nor hear, the Traveler's tale.