The Bells

by Justan O. Thereditor

(with half-hearted apologies to E.A. Poe)

I.

Hear the May Day Morning bells -
Morris bells!
What a breath of springtime their cacophony foretells!
How they waken, waken, waken,
In the chilly, early light,
Almost singing, as they're shaken,
"Rise and shine, and smell the bacon!"
With a saccharine delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
(Well, they're SORT-OF keeping time)
To the merry mystic melodies and deep druidic spells
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, bells,
To the cloying and annoying of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow, evening bells -
drunken bells.
What a scene of jovial camaraderie it tells.
At the tavern, late at night,
More than just a little tight,
From their happy, raspy throats
As they croon,
What a bawdy ballad floats
To a vaguely-half-remembered string of notes,
Out of tune.
Oh, their song no sound of harmony excels.
How it tells
Of buxom belles,
Through such blatant parallels
As warm vales and shady dells,
Hiding deep and secret wells;
To the rhythm of the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, bells,
As they're singing to the ringing of the bells.

III.

Hear the cheep, freeloaders' bells -
Fleeing bells!
What a righteous anger in the landlord it foretells!
As they surge into the night,
Fumbling, stumbling in their flight,
In a hasty get-away
From a bill they cannot pay
From the bag,
When the squire, in a sudden flash of drunken insight knowing,
By the glasses on the tables, just how much they must be owing,
O'er his back a jacket throwing,
Muttered "Lads, we'd best be going!"
Now the landlord gapes, agog,
And cries out, "Unchain the dog!
For to track them through the fog,
By their bells, bells, bells,
And the telltale moldy smells
Of their feet,
As they trip and reel and wobble,
And careen off every cobble
In the dark, uneven street!"
Then, at length his doorway reaching,
And impeaching
With his screaching,
Loud the landlord there decries the mass retreat,
And invokes a thousand hells,
Loudly cursing
Their dispersing,
And fires off a couple shells
At the filthy fleeing figures in the bells, bells, bells,
In the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, bells,
At the stinking Morris dancers in the bells!

IV.

Hear the morning-after bells -
POUNDING bells.
What a day of living purgatory it foretells!
With a piercing stab of light,
Putting blessed sleep to flight,
In its subtlety much like a sonic boom,
To an aching, sloshing head
On the floor beside the bed.
Feel it bloom,
Feel it blossom into throbbing
Of all sense and reason robbing,
Save a sense of certain doom,
As a groan, groan, groan
Seems the stomach to consume.
All too weak to reach the "throne"
In the small adjacent room,
Like the karma of the boozing,
Like the call of cookie-losing.
Feel it fume.
With a force no will can squelch
Comes a belch,
Belch, belch, belch, belch,
Like an echo of the bells,
In the belly how it swells.
Like an echo of the bells,
How of hops and bile it smells.
As it spews, spews, spews
And it covers socks and shoes
Like some great artesian well's
Gush it expels,
And it spews, spews, spews,
And begins to seep and ooze,
To the music of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the pounding and the sounding of the bells,
As it spews, spews, spews,
And up-wells, -wells, -wells,
And it fills both socks and shoes,
To the clanging of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the banging of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, bells,
The accompanying thumping of the bells.