When that Auguste with Her Dryest of Days
A very rough first draft by Geoffrey Chaucer
When that Auguste with her dryest of days
Nears the droghte of September, covered with haze
And bathe we our sorrows in sweete licuor
As we fill with longin,’ countin’ doon the hour
To Whan Larry Harvey’s fete’ll yet again commence
And we, his merry prankstyrs, deign to get us hence,
Fancyin’ ourselves to be artistes, sculptors, Spyrite Dancers
Eco-warriors, free-lovers, or cannibys fanciers,
Gather we all our toons of sypplyes
Containers of safe drynking water, pyled to the skyes,
Vegytaryian Vyttles we ca’ eat on the roon
And plyntye of droogs to have us our funn
Guitars, drummes, harmonycas, and rattles
For makin’ la musica while we skedaddle
Pyces of junke we’ve been all yare collectin’
Put together in this fyne hour of reconnectin’
’Cause when every last songe and dance is doon
We’ll light ’em on fyre and kyss as they byrne.
So priketh hem Nature in hir caravans
Thanne longen folk to goon east to Byrnning Mann.
A funny thing happened on our way to Canterbury, and we got sidetracked by a modern desert phenomenon, that made us lose all sense of time and place and history and our literary legacy — including our Middle English dialect.
But a great time was had by all! So great we’re hoping to go again next year, God willing. ~g.c.