The Ballad of the Ballad Without End

This piece takes its inspiration from a writing prompt created by Bradley Ramsey & Hazel.

I sit at my desk and I scribble my poems
As the socially awkward will do.
But Bradley’s new prompt has me scratching my head,
So I stare at my laptop and stew.

A story involving a ballad? Come on!
No one still bothers with those!
If it was a sonnet, I’d quickly be on it,
But, Bradley: a ballad? That blows!

And off my mind wanders, in hope of escape,
When were ballads in vogue, anyway?
Centuries gone? Middle Ages? Oh, yawn!
If I lived back then, maybe I’d play…

The Ballad of the Ballad Without End

Gregory, the Pensive Poet, sat in the back of the tavern, muttering over the muslin where he had scrawled his latest song. It was a ballad that he had been battling with, the ending ever elusive.

The crowded tavern was terribly loud, and Gregory could take it no more. He picked up his poem and elfin-sized harp and scuttled across the floor, into the back. Igor the chef simply nodded; he liked Gregory’s songs and often let him work in the quiet of the pantry.

There, Gregory set himself up and took his wee harp in his hands. “I’ll play what I have,” he said to his nerve-shattered self, “and maybe a sprite will pity my plight and send me a well-rendered ending.”

And so, he began to play and ever so softly to sing his song. Normally Hazel the Chanteuse was on hand to sing his songs for the throngs, but she was in bed with a cold and was nowhere near on the mend. So shy little Gregory would have to perform. If he just had the voice…or his song had an end!

His fingers fluidly tugged on each string, and then, right on cue, our hero did sing:

There once was maiden of marigold hair
Who lived in a castle afar.
The palace, alas, was aloft in the air;
Unreachable, much like a star.

And many young men had tried many a plan
To get to the floating fair maid
But no one succeeded, not one to a man,
So, airborne, the fair lady stayed.

But one day the handsome young man, Glancealot,
Came sauntering by the flotilla,
In love on the spot, he proceeded to plot
To find a way up to the villa.

Inventors he hounded from valley to hill
To make him a flying machine,
And when he found one with the requisite skill
He paid him a fee most obscene.

The craftsman created a wonderous thing:
Unlike any ship ever known:
A fuselage flanked on each side by a wing,
Successfully tested and flown.

Good Glancealot, eager, climbed into the craft
And then he was off on his way;
His hair felt a draft and he gleefully laughed
And dared, “I’ll be married today!”

Then, poor Gregory’s fingers fell still as his voice. He’d come to the end of his verse. He still had no ending, his voice wasn’t choice, and he felt as if under a curse.

When all of a sudden, a sack full of flour wriggled a bit on the shelf. A seam opened up and out from the sack popped a white-dusted, spine-crusted elf!

He sneezed and he shook his wee body about, casting dust off and then--a bonanza: he looked at our Gregory, getting a grin, and said “Mind if I give you a stanza?”

He whispered his words into Gregory’s ears and a smile on Gregory grew.

“And,” said the elf, “I shall sing it for you.” Thus, Gregory’s wish came true.

* * *

I sit at my desk and I scribble this bunk
That I hope will suffice for the job,
And if Bradley and Hazel don’t think that it’s junk
Then, I guess, I’ll be one lucky slob.

I’ll leave you with this, if you’re reading these lines
And you feel like the time is worth spending,
Go finish the ballad, as if you’re the elf,
And give it your own happy ending.