In with minds delight of the bread
The dress of the weary, is wicked and dread

From cobbled halls of the Beguinage
Where maids live so un-flawed

To Maximilians unjustly cursed, Minnewater pond

Dark knight of old Bruges, silt up your streams
Hence sight of twilight covered Bokkenrijders, such foul hungered thieves!

Times are a post creed, though dagger's pierce still remains
Oh great pilgrims flow, the traverse path of ancient trades

And noted;
Not in concern, the young mans head be turned
As now the Tailors live burned, for there were no more Counts to be clothed

In drink so astray, bewildered and pale, from one Market Man of Marseille, to the Gentile of Turnbridge Wells

For the wanderers eye, reaches only but down
To search in the dawn skies
To hear the winds and to drown

Rasputin's crown jest is now damned, and men of his court
Are no longer in high hand, sweet crepes, and Bordeaux

The wasted years of a youth, now matured into shame
Seeking fortune and fame, without promise nor truth

But yes, the luck of the captive, the shifter be turned
For in walked the Temptress, soothing tides of a moon

In awe he shall reach, for her hand if not wed
To take her love for the ways, the Sayer's day indeed said

In contrast of the mad, the day has now fame
The found grasp of her heart, is fertile and grand


The final guarded dwell of crescent wave
not parade, the notes of the last word of old Gazelle, the jade.........

City of Bruges, not to let die
Leap not from your belfry, so strong upon eye

And no petals shall mourn, as they do of the tramps
The "Flower of Death", its rows shall ordain thy cordial righteous quest

Dark death is be-sieged, and away to the mounts
With fine grace of said glory, to Our Lady's front stage


Proud Lady of Burgundy, would surely be clad
In her finest donned lace, and bold garrison at hand.