"Let The Banquet Begin" by Peter Jones

'Tis smoky in the banquet hall, just as you might expect;
The boar turns slowly on its spit, a feed you'd not reject.
The sizzling of its dripping fat is music to our ears,
As we gather in the hall, quaffing our ales and beers.
As foes we faced each other, once; as foes we once more meet;
A temporary peace exists, that wary foes might eat!
For this one night, but once a year, we can let down our guard.
'Tis on this night that we observe the Banquet of the Bard.

Battered and weary, bruised and sore, the warriors bide their time.
The Slayer, Ron, scratches his chin, and mumbles a nonsense rhyme;
Handsome Hully inspects his nails, pleased with their perfection,
And casually aligns his shield, adoring his reflection;
Fearless Phillip, so bold and brave, flexes his muscular arm,
With all his bulky size and strength, what foe could do him harm?
All but unseen, shadowy dream, in a corner of the great hall,
The mysterious Essence sits so still, quietly watching them all.

Here too are the Ladies, so dangerous in the extreme;
Look past their smiles and see in their eyes that dangerous gleam!
The Crusader, Kris, ignores the kiss blown by one of the men,
Her mind is on her recipes: curry, and an old hen.
Destroyer Debbie sits alone, nursing a long-held grudge;
Many have tried to lay it to rest, but ne'er would she budge.
The Pacifist, maid of Honour, forgoes the trappings of war,
She sings a soothing melody, of battles nevermore.

And so they gather, so they wait, these foes of battles past;
This is not the first such gath'ring, and 'twill not be the last.
"But who are you?" I hear you ask. But who am I indeed?
A newcomer from far away; why should you pay me heed?
A humble wordsmith, that is all; penmanship is my game.
Philosopher, and Phoenix too - but Pete is my true name!
Warrior too, if 'tis required, but I'm not here to win;
I merely want to stand, and say: "Let the banquet begin!"