Ramblings of a Page

In yon meadow fair maidens doth ride, the trudge, the sludge. Slowly creeping forth the shadows, darkness, creeping out of the boredom. The filthy sloth of aristocracy.  The dreadful tread, the step of the page, never over bounding, the dreaded tread of the castle’s Lord.  The sun rising, doth proclaim a morning forth, the trumpet, excruciating sound, ripping what sleep is left, out of the mindless eye.  The castle no longer just a hive, where buzzing can be heard, but more an ants nest where the bodies crawl forth and none stand still. The workers being slave to their Lord above all. Owing him their lives, their land, not theirs, but leased, growing, planting forth the armies, power creeping.  The armies meant to conquer, kin states, fatherly countries. Yonder enemies, over land and sea. Forth the armies do spread, like the ants, they do claim land that was never theirs. Invading, encroaching on other territory.  But for now, without, within and withal. I go to feed the horses. Tiring menial beasts, warlords in their own right. Demonic creatures, with teeth like a blacksmith’s hammer. Never biting, slicing like a carnivore. Yet, hurting, injuring this person or this person’s fellows in their vice-like grip. To be bruised and scarred and carried away in this flood, where sickness can already be on you.  This poisoned bit, like a maiden’s look. The maiden high above my fair position. I be but a lowly page and she of a high family. She doth flirt and bat her eyes at me, but dumb I am not. Though to her it may seem so. She who has had a higher education as such, tutors and lectures, spewing forth their mockery of the lower class in this random parting lost on the intelligence of a fair maiden, day-dreaming about her knight in shining armour, come to rescue her from the dragon. Which in this case might be the old fart, tutoring her. The hypocrisy, or rather heresy of the upper class ham.  The greedy good, no for these times, they are what men look up to. Is it because of their deeds? Have they done something worth mentioning, that in this misdeed filled, miscreant rich era, can be the sole reason for men to look up at them? No, no, no. They didn’t do a thing. Men look up at them, because their wench, snotty, nose in the air, greater then thou, mothers, couldn’t have the decent common courtesy, to keep their legs closed.  To keep these hegemonies, sons of reeking pigs, out of the common man’s hair. Yet, we, the common man, look up to them, because in these times. We would rather be them, the rich. The sole reason for existence becomes entertainment. Even if it be at the cost of someone else’s life.  Life, can it really be called life. This farcical being, dredging of pips and nuts from the trough of life. Begging for nuts, thrown to us, by the easily amused, quite frankly, lame brained kind, or as they are known to most... The aristocracy.Dreadfully, dreary, drastic, differing dig, also known as work. Hard work, back breaking existence. For this we receive no thanks. No gold coins. Just enough to keep us happy in this time of needing food and receiving. Making me puke in the desperation of it all. Scratching, sniffling and crawling. Dogs, we are dogs. Nothing more then the master’s dogs. ‘Craven!!’ Ugh! And duty doth call forth, fare thee well reader, thank ye for listening to a man not oft listened to.