He was in tears and so was Carson, probably most of the audience, too.
Congratulations, but please stay away from nuclear subs for awhile: A Russian navy officer drinks champagne from a huge wine glass containing daggers presented to graduates as he celebrates graduation from a Navy Institute in St. Petersburg.
Stressed out? Head for the Destruction Therapy session at Castejon, northern Spain, and get in touch with your inner appliance-hater.
The air was hushed, the paths were bare, the streets were quiet and still,
and townsfolk closed their shutters tight, with a glance to the cliffs past the mill,
and countrymen cowered, crossing themselves, for not a man abroad would go
when the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below.
The children saw eyes full of fear, that night, for their parents would not stray out,
Outside, there was not a sound to be heard, not even the night watch's shout,
And the children would ask, whatever's the matter, what could scare you all so?
while the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below.
In the tavern's hall, where the guests were gathered, the very same question was asked,
And the company cornered the oldest of gaffers, whom they pestered and took him to task,
And he began his story, while the innkeeper fretted, and to bar all the windows did go,
as the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below.
"This valley was fair, the people were happy", the ancient old gaffer did say,
"ever since the time that the very last witches were finally driven away.
But the trouble and dread began, as it did, those many years ago,
when the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below.
"At the top of the cliffs, sat the hovel in which the last of the crones did abide,
and the townsfolk with torches and tools did come, and burned it with the witch still inside,
but as the roof collapsed, a veil of smoke mixed with fog that the wind did not blow,
and the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below.
"And every year, on the night of the fire, the crone returns in the smoke,
to take the lives, one by one, who took hers", the old gaffer spoke,
"One for each year, until all are consumed, that they may reap what they did sow,
when the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below."
The company shivered, they now knew the tale, and sat near the fire all night,
and not for gold would they leave that hall, so much were they filled with fright.
But the gaffer, he stiffened, he'd breathed his last, for it was now HIS turn to go,
as the grey mist rolled over the cliffs, filling the valley below.