This competition requires composing a poem of no more than fifty lines satirizing a person, place or thing. Recognize that the era Leinster is in is approximately 200 AD.

Message: A quick definition of satire...
Author: - Moira Baoisgne, Patron
Date: Jul 23, 1999 19:39
According to the American Heritage Dictionary, satire is "an artistic work in which human vice or folly is attacked through irony, derision, or wit." or "Irony or caustic wit used to expose or attack human folly." But in our case, the object of irony doesn't have to be human.

Oh, and satire is NOT to be confused with satyr, which is a furry little guy with the hindquarters, hooves and horns of a goat...different animal, pardon the pun. *S*

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Message: for an anonymous friend as it were...
Author: - moibhe Baoisgne, Patron
Date: Jul 26, 1999
Intelligence, 'tis said, is the grace of man
And wisdom a gift long cherished
But what waste when praise so noble won
Is stolen by self’s own tributes claimed.

A tale to tell of a fool have I
whose ego was fed by self compliment.
Such a man is not so rare to lie
In a bed of deluded worship built.

His wit was as sharp as a sword, 'tis true
And his tongue as swift as that same blade:
a withered sword of rusted hue,
that blade no truer than kin denounced.

With such skill as blade could beget
This man, by boast alone, would claim
a hero’s home, a scholar’s meet..
Through word not thought his laurels form.

Such wisdom as this is better worn
With lowered head and visage meek
Than with the stolen glory of better men
Whose sense is more than Nemed weak.

copyright 1999 jsw

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Message: Rags Theft and Fodder
Author: satyrist - Julia Theocritos, Patron
Date: Jul 18, 1999

A cart the old man pulls
into the market square
when angry voices
pierce his deafened ear.


A ball of legs and rags
comes sailing through
the air
adds to the pile
of foddered waste;
not fit for
working animals.

“Get off”
the old man shouts
“I will not have you here.
ye’re no’ fit
for this fodder
I’ll belt your
hide to Eire.”

The cowered
arrival on the cart
scrambles
to the mud
He leaves the tarts
he would have ate
as fodder
in a tumbrel.

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Message: The Myth of Power
Author: - Dartagnan MacRoth, Patron

The Myth of Power

There once was a lion,
And, boy, could he roar,
He growled out loud, always for more,
But never enough did he get from his mouth,
So he went on a quest, far down in the south.

For there he once heard,
Lived a fabulous beast,
That had all that he wanted and always held feast,
So that was his goal, to learn what to do,
So that he could brag, no matter to who.

For lion indeed,
Was a snob and a miser,
Could learn what he would but never got wiser,
Thus he figured with power he could get what he lacked,
As not to be loathed as not get sacked.

During his quest,
He met with some vultures,
Who seemed to know a lot about cultures,
And asking directions for this fabulous creature,
They asked him about its characteric feature.

Lion he thought,
- Which took him a while -,
And remembered someone naming the Nile,
The vultures, they squeaked for all they were worth,
Then stated the Nile was up in the north.

So off he went,
In the other direction,
Still wondering about that eery connection,
Between the Nile and the creature he wanted to meet,
While the miles wore him down and tortured his feet.

Days they went by,
In haze and confusion,
And his goal seemed now but a forlorn illusion,
When down in a valley where a river did stream,
He met with a beast he never had seen.

Chubby and pink,
It lay in the river,
With small beady eyes and ears that did quiver.
But lion was shocked when it opened it's mouth,
This must be the creature he had sought in the south.

"Do you have all ?",
Lion inquired,
Not taking his eyes from the mouth he admired,
"And if you have all, do give me the key,
To your wondrous success. Please give it to me."

The hippo just yawned,
-For that's what it was--,
Was snug and content and chewing some grass,
"I have what I need. I don't ask for more,
And I have no idea what you're looking for."

Then lion was stunned,
And started to growl,
And believe it or not he even did howl,
Then followed his trail back to his home,
To live there in wrath and die there alone.

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Date: Jul 20, 1999Message: My entry...
Author: - Fleury CuChulainn, Patron
Date: Jul 26, 1999
Practical jokes
and mischievous tricks
appear to be duties
of the half elven ranger

Spying from trees
and freezing people in place
are apparently the talents
of the half elven ranger

Claims of great skill
and stories of glory
are the subjects of boasts
of the half elven ranger

Being spied on from trees
and being frozen in place
are some of the pranks played
on the harmless lass healer

When a challenge is made
by the harmless lass healer
the first one to step down
is the half elven ranger

She issued the challenge
and vowed harmless revenge
he turned tail and fled
did the half elven ranger

Practical jokes
and mischievous tricks
are apparently not needed
by the harmless lass healer

The jokes and the tricks
are not needed by she
these words show the power
of the mighty lass healer

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Message: Just playing ...*S*...
Author: Righ of Leinster - Mikele Baoisgne, Patron
Date: Jul 26, 1999
The Perfect Liar

Lying is difficult business sure,
Once on the slope of it, no cure.
The liar ever slides to their demise
in the oily residue of their own lies
The grade too treacherous to remain.

Its easy, yes, to understand
The white lie beckons underhand
Coquettish smiles, beguiling send
The most staunch of us to bend
And drink from its proffered cup.

But it is foolhardiness indeed,
to think no consequence of this need,
for that one act, so self indulgent
Seeds the soul with lie's lament,
Rue the day it's cast back at you.

And so the web of lies is spun,
strand by strand, white every one.
And though creation at one brief time,
might think it beautiful, sublime,
The weaver still devours her guests.

But that web too is doomed to break,
One ill timed strand, one slight mistake
And wind, or water, or earth conspire
to rend that web, put out that ire
For there's no such thing as a perfect liar.

© 1999 MCB

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Message: I can't resist! (but I'm not competing)
Author: Sharp tongued? - Morghan Manach, Patron
Date: Jul 26, 1999
The pull of satire is just too much. Hee!


When I was a little child
I was not been meek, or ever mild
I did prefer to romp and run
for why should BOYS have all the fun?

They get dinkys and electric cars
(which beat out barbie's boobs by far)
and though I liked to do Barb's hair
why did Ken have moulded underwear?

My cousin had a bow and arrow
(I shot my uncle, not a sparrow)
I had a plastic kitchenette
To make me want to cook, I bet

I did not sculpt my play-doh blue,
instead I shoved it down the loo!
The invisble food that I would feign
was seasoned always with ptomaine!

I hung off sail boats and wharves!
I never wore my winter scarves!
I was always barefoot in the grass!
I told the boys to kiss my...behind.

My mother daily threw big fits
while I sharpened all my wits
Why did I do this all back then?
Because I live in a world of MEN!

But now, things have somewhat changed
my knowledge now has greatly ranged
for now I've discovered one small thing
men can be led as if on string!

If I clean my nails and do my hair
and bathe and put on clean underwear
I've found, and really it's quite strange
that women can dive men deranged!

But all you feminists out there
might think that I have not a care
for all the efforts our sex have done
in battles that we've fought and won

But NO! I understand completely
Bat your eyes and smile sweetly
Half the time you drive them batty
it's not mean (it's merely catty)

The other half, you romp and play
change your tires - sweat's okay!
Run barefoot in the grass
tell male dorks to kiss your...behind

But after that, you flaunt your stuff
cause being prissy's not enough
Men will tire of a babyish fool,
But a real woman will make them drool.

*lmao* I have this on good authority from the opposite sex. *W*

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Message: "Wizard of the Weeds"
Author: - Eldrich Niall
Date: Jul 28, 1999
Earth student, globe magician,
They label you degenerate
In your antediluvian rags,
But tatters and patches vanish
As smoky incense ghosts arise
Evoking the mystic fog.

Sad but lofty in their infinite wisdom
The gods smile down indulgently
Upon their idiot bastard child
Playing prince of darkness
In his palace of delusions
Girded with the sword of sorrows.

The sorcerer's apprentice glows hopefully
Despite his invisible chains and child's games.
He squints sincerely and peers into the crystal,
For one moment abandoning himself.
He floats, levitating briefly,
But sees only his own mundane reflection.

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Message: An Utterance............
Author: Seannachaidh - Cathal Cumhaill, Patron
Date: Jul 29, 1999
Given to the Laird Gillespie Mor upon his having insulted the Seannachaidh Cathal with cold food and poor ale, violating the Brehon Laws regarding Hospitality.

"May your children grow beautiful,
yet heed not their father's counsel.
May your cattle graze upon your lands,
but never fatten.
May your fields be fields of weeds,
and your servants unruly.
A miserable host were ye
and for your troubles do recieve
a rhymeless reproach, without reprieve."

With that, the Seannachaidh and his company depart, ever to grace the his door no more.

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Message: Battle!
Author: peaceful - Kaylinn Iceni
Date: Jul 30, 1999
We march into battle with pride in our hearts.
We march into battle with songs in our hearts
We march into battle with clouds in our thoughts

We stand on the front lines
Fear laces our veins
Long spear held sky high
Bronze shield held low

Our faces are coloured blue
Half painted, half cold
Our screams are of anguish
We charge forth for gold

Swords are bloodied in battle
Our foes trod down in battle
My friends fall down in battle

We slaughter the wounded
And call it mercy
A sword through the heart-place
their bodies in shreds

"We won the battle" they cry
"We gained in battle" they cry
"But we lost our hearts" I cry

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Message: The Doorman
Author: stray Roman - Tiziana Fabius, Patron
Date: Aug 2, 1999

It's a most important job, you see
A most important job
The druids they rely on me
to filter out the yobs.

To filter out the chaff and whey
the stupid and the drunk
Inside they don't want riff-raff, see
There's thinking to be thunk.

Sometimes they try to hoodwink me
"I know a man inside.."
They even say they know the Righ
But he would have my hide

If I were just to let 'em in
Who knows what that could start
this place is sacred, heads would roll
(..this filtering's an art..)

Your name's not down, not on the list,
So bugger off, I say -
though happy if my butt is kissed
you'll never make me sway.

And just remember, everyone,
I've been here Twenty Years -
yes, that's why I'm entitled to
the patronising sneers.

And if you give me any cheek
when you get turned away,
this coat I wear means "I'm in charge"
- so come on, make my day!

You know, they sometimes say to me
"These Druids got it all-
- knowledge, power, riches...and
a doorman proud and tall."

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Message: What am I but what you ask?
Author: Deliverer - Poseidon Ariston, Patron
Date: Aug 3, 1999

A skilled artisan am I
for if I weren’t, my trade would surely die

Through my craft, I’m there through thick and thin
to share in joy and sorrow, and linger on until the morrow

To subtly subdue, or to downright send a shudder through
an answer to some, or just another form of fun

An acrid abrasion, or a softly spun persuasion
I, through my craft, can be brought anywhere, always there

And when I’m done, a sorrow throughout I bring
until again, I arrive, to bring that twinkle to an eye, and take away the sting

To those throughout, I end the draught of what their soul or spirit aspire
boosting moral and subsequent to them, to purge their soul, I build a pyre


To be both light and dark, bitter and sweet, and yet to be a grain with meat
Hearty to some, or just a treat, sometimes to do nothing but generate heat.

I share my craft so openly, freely sharing it’s bitter repose
And in many an establishment, to the final close

For I bring you nectar that nature has refined, then I define
I’m the one that brings you your Wine

A craftsman like no other, with the graces of chemists
I mix your delight, escape and a nemesis

Your fortune, your future, I do not create
It’s your own inner soul, your love and your hate

I’m only the toil behind every grain and grape
ready to deliver you, your eventual, self-determined fate.

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Message: The Cleaning of Kyla's Bag
Author: *hiding a smile* - Turlough CuChulainn
Date: Aug 4, 1999
As a seperate entry, yet building upon The Taming of Thing, I present, with apologies to Kyla Cormac (I hope she has a good sense of humour)...


The Cleaning of Kyla's Bag

A Celt named Kyla Cormac had a special magic sack
It would never be full up, no matter how much she did pack.
But one day as she looked for a little bag of snacks,
She pricked her little finger on small, sharp metal tacks.
She quickly drew her hand back and she brushed 'gainst something furry,
And that's when dearest Kyla felt the quivering of worry.
It had been so very long since she had cleaned her bag right out
Lugh only knew, at this point, all the things that she did tout.
So of course, a thorough cleaning was the only thing to do,
She intended to get Thing to clean her bag out through and through.
"Oh Thing!" she called into her bag as sweetly as she could,
He popped his head outside, as he knew he probably should.
"Thing," said Kyla to him, "I have a task for you,"
And Thing looked up and wondered just what she would have him do.
"Well," she said, "it's clear that to me my bag is quite a mess.
I'm not too sure what's in there. It's pretty full, I guess.
But seeing as you live in there, you probably should know,
Exactly where things are inside, so Thing, I wish you'd go
And organise my sack, and make it nice and clean.
Clean it end to end, please, and all points in between."
Thing chittered his acceptance of the daunting task ahead,
And resolved to get a start on the task that Kyla'd said.
He popped back in the bag, and he heaved a tiny sigh.
"There is so much stuff inside here," thought the little guy.
A chessboard and a sketchbook, and some three month old rye bread.
A horse's riding saddle and and big old stuffed moose head.
A bag of chocolate candies and a journal and a pen,
Some peppermints, some hairclips, and a book all about Zen.
Some twine and a few mirrors, and some wax in a big hunk,
A few changes of clothes, not to mention all the junk.
So Thing, dispirited of heart, was looking all around,
And started picking things up when he heard a funny sound.
He spotted the sound's source and he popped his head outside,
And chittered up at Kyla, who looked down at him and sighed.
"No, I don't know what to do with that big horse," she said to him.
"I won him down in Rome and put him in there on a whim."
Thing gave a little growl and he disappeared once more,
And he took the horse's bridle and he showed it to the door.
The horse left Kyla's bag, and she let it trot away.
She bit back the snide remark that she so wanted to say.
Then Thing did keep ejecting things from inside of the bag.
All the thing Kyla'd collected and of which she liked to brag.
Thing threw out some stones, and a signpost she had taken,
The horse's riding saddle and a mouldy side of bacon.
He wisely chose to keep all the candies and the books,
He also kept some shackles that she liked to use on crooks.
He spent the next few hours sorting everything all out,
And when he'd finally finished he popped outside with a small shout.
He chittered at length to Kyla, then he crossed his arms in front,
And set his tiny jaw, and prepared to take the brunt.
"What do mean you've had it?" the Celtic woman asked.
"You haven't even finished the job that you've been tasked.
I know that in that bag are a lot of crazy things,
But you must understand that some of them were gifts from kings!
But if you're very fixed on not cleaning up anymore-
I'm far too nice to threaten to show you the exit door-
Then I'd ask of you to live here 'til you're finished with the job,
'Cause as you know from living here I can be quite a slob."
So Thing lives in her bag still, and cleans endlessnessly still,
He knows all the stuff she has in there - but he's compiling his bill...


Once again, apologies to Kyla... She's not as bad as all that.

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Message: Romeo
Author: the one and only - Willow Ubaratutu
Date: Aug 5, 1999
She'll never know what games you play
late at night when she's away.
Your troubles will vanish with the day,
my sweet Romeo.

And you might tell a lie or two,
but, she'll never know it's not true.
Besides there's nothing she can do
to stop my Cassanova.

Women will flock to you in tons,
waiting to have some fun.
The endless cycle will never be done
for my poor Don Juan.

What a plan you've created!
To break hearts after you've dated.
But, you'll never be hated,
'cause everyone loves Romeo.

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Message: my contribution
Author: the late - logicon Solon
Date: Aug 10, 1999
The highest station on the earth
Was to live as fish so heard
The little bird and so he went
To dive down where the fishes sent
The praise of their wet element

He flew as high as he could come
Then taking aim from airy dome
He fell in highest speed again
The utmost aim he was to gain.

The lake grew bigger, bigger still,
the little bird through unbend will.
Did throw himself still faster down
Then met his fate - and did drown


logicon solon

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Message: Announcing the results of this category......
Author: Righ of Leinster - Mikele Baoisgne, Patron
Date: Oct 10, 1999
Thanks again to all the fine entrants who have graced us with their hearts and their works. The averaged rank order score with the highest and the lowest scores removed are attached. These results will lead into the final scoring for the title of Bard of Leinster.

Cathal Cumhaill
Tiziana Fabius
Logicon Solon
Julia Theocritos
Willow Ubaratu
Eldrich Niall
moibhe Baoisgne
Fleury CuChullain
Turlough CuChullain
Dartagnan MacRoth
Kaylinn Iceni
Poseidon Ariston