Pickling badgers because the moon is full

I lost my trousers on the Brighton Line…

 

So go the lyrics to one of the most well-known songs by Sir Thomas Winkle, poet, folksinger and extortionist of Old London Town.

 

I happened across Sir Thomas when I chanced to think about the year 1576 and became enveloped in the mists of thought which, because they couldn’t see properly, turned reality into the 16th century for a few hours.

 

Sir Thomas was a-thrumming his lute, but I ignorèd that, as verily I stumbled upon him.  "Good sir," quoth he, "what art thou, a man?  What strange attire you wear for a gentleman.  Art thou from around these parts?"  Well, I covered my inexplicable nakedness from him with a nearby rose and proceeded: "In sooth, Sir, I am from foreign parts.  My name is Mark Sand-Spencer," I added with great haste and a fevered brow.

 

"Whither are these foreign parts, Squire?" he quoth, with what I thought was a little too much inquisitiveness.

 

"Wolverhampton," I quoth, growing as ruddy as the rose which covered my modesty.

 

"This is some fancy or witchcraft," he began, "sayest thou that thou comest from that place of dread and devilry?  Then begone and takest not my calling card, for I have no wish to know thee stranger!"

 

And with that he took up his lute and stalked away muttering an incantation.  I followed him not and lookèd around for other roses to keep out the growing chill.  Presently I espied him returning hither with a bashful aspect.

 

"Sirrah?"

 

"I am come back to give thee this," he stuttered and placèd in my hand a leather-bound volume of his poetry.

 

"I thank thee even though thou art a bit weird, noble sir.  What manner of fellow art thou?  What is thy name?" saith I.

 

He then proceedeth to tell me that he be Sir Thomas Winkle, celebrated poet and minstrel.  I believèd him not, but nevertheless thanked him and wishèd that he would quit my sight as I was getting hypothermia.

 

Before he left me for ever he trippèd over a small stone which amused me greatly I confesseth.

 

His book of poetry was some of the worst I hath ever read in my life and I tossèd it into a ditch.  What a waste of time.

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