[Old Sarge]

My muse is a tickler,
a tease and a tantalizer,
who nonetheless provides me with rich fertilizer
for verse and for sonnet, for song and for writing,
while the troops think that all I do here is moonlighting,

I prance and I caper, I flirt and carouse,
but if in past verses and line you might browse,
one might see that, in all of the lines that I pen,
the love for all here shines again and again!

[BIGLOOK]

Hey Sarge, where are you at? Thought you were headed east.

[Soaring Feather]

Long days on the field
leave the knight tense and tight
his muse becomes his sole delight
holding the reins of steeds in armour
straining and cold-ready for charging in the night.

A sonnet he may write, a line or two of flatter
all things do matter for the knight to hold his honor right
to fall to his knees for his lady love
in velvets robes whose countenance are at his dispose.

"To hold Excalibur high and ride off into the night.