By P.K. Silverson
© Copyright 2009
By The Author
All Rights Reserved
On a fine spring morning long ago, in a simple but comfortable cottage down a well-worn lane off the main street which ran through town, there was born a child to a simple but well-meaning potter and his wife. And they were, quite simply, very happy about this.
As was the custom, friends and family and neighbors from all around came to visit the simple but well-meaning potter and his wife in their comfortable cottage down a well-worn lane off the main street which ran through town just to get a first look at the couple’s wonderful child. In the light of all the attention lavished on him, the baby boy gurgled and cooed as if on cue. He responded to the resulting laughter and applause with a wide and happy smile.
“He’s a born show-off,” the friends and family and neighbors from all around said to the simple but well-meaning potter and his wife after every performance. The couple simply had to agree.
Nurtured by the loving care of his parents and the constant attention of his community, the boy grew quickly and became strong. When he reached the age of ten, his father gave him a mandolin for his birthday. He was, quite simply, just about the happiest boy on the face of the earth.
“Study your instrument well, Simon,” the simple potter told him. Because he was a good and obedient son, the boy heeded his father’s advice. He diligently practiced his precious mandolin. He easily learned to pick out songs on the instrument…as if he’d been given years of lessons at the finest music conservatory in the land. This was hardly the case, of course. He was simply the heir of a simple but well-meaning potter and his wife.
Music soon filled the comfortable cottage down a well-worn lane off the main street which ran through town day and night. Drawn by the beautiful melodies, friends and family and neighbors from all around came to listen. In the light of all the new attention lavished upon him, Simon played his mandolin on demand. He responded to the resulting laughter and applause with a wide and happy smile.
“We always said he was a born show-off,” the friends and family and neighbors from all around said to the simple but well-meaning potter and his wife after every performance and after they’d polished off the coffee and sinkers the potter’s wife would make for them when they came to hear her son play. The couple simply had to agree.
One night, as mandolin music filled the summer’s air in the garden around the comfortable cottage down a well-worn lane off the main street which ran through town, a neighbor girl, not much older than Simon was overcome by the romance of the evening.
“Sing for us,” she called to the boy.
“Yes, Simon, please sing for us,” her neighbors echoed, thoroughly caught up in her ardor.
The boy stopped playing and regarded his audience with a stony silence.
“What’s the matter?” the neighbor girl called to him.
“I do not know any songs,” the potter’s son admitted, somewhat embarrassed.
“Make one up, you’re a clever lad,” an uncle-once-removed suggested from the back of the crowd.
“All right,” Simon agreed, strumming once or twice on his precious mandolin to give his nimble fingers a running start. In a moment, a new melody filled the garden. The boy began to sing in a strong, clear voice:
Laundered britches falling down.
Falling down, falling down.
Laundered britches falling down.
My bare heinie.
“What a clever boy!” the friends and family and neighbors from all around cheered. They rewarded the boy’s performance with a round of rich applause. As always, he accepted their appreciation with a wide and happy smile.
Simon continued to grow quickly, nurtured along by the loving care of his parents and the adoration of his community. When he reached the age of manhood, his father took him aside and gave him a brief talk for his birthday.
“My son,” the simple potter said, “the time has come for you to make your own way in the world.”
“I know,” the earnest youth replied.
“Your mother and I send you forth with our love and this little bit of money I give you now, and with our complete confidence,” the simple potter went on, barely able to hold back his tears at this bittersweet parting. “We know you’ll get along just fine, because you are a clever lad.”
“I know,” Simon again replied.
“What you may not already know, my son,” his loving father smiled at him gently, “is that your path has been made easier by your cleverness. Our good king himself has heard of your singing and playing. Our liege has sent word. You are expected to present yourself to his court on the day you reach young manhood, which is this very day.”
To this, Simon had no words in reply. He simply met his father’s gaze with a wide and happy smile.
“God be with you and keep you safe from harm,” the simple potter said to his son as the time of leaving came.
“Good-bye, father,” Simon said. He struck off down the well-worn lane to the main street which ran through town, which carried him away from the comfortable cottage of the simple potter and his wife. Cheerfully he sang to help him along his way:
Singing stoned on six-packs,
Snoot so full of rye.
Uppers, marijuana,
Higher than the sky.
When the party’s over,
Heads begin to ring.
It’s enough to make you wish
You weren’t such a wild thing.
By the by, the clever young man came to the castle of the good king. He presented himself at the front gate. When it was determined he really was who he claimed to be, he was ushered straight-away to the great hall of the royal palace. There, he found the grand court in an uproar.
“What’s going on?” Simon enquired of a courtesan, who was scurrying across the great hall on what appeared to be most-important business.
“There’s been a big slide on the big board ever since the opening bell this morning,” the courtesan answered breathlessly, not bothering to come to a full stop. “Acting on a hot tip, our good king is heavily leveraged in men’s garments. His position is quite unprotected. He’s about to take a big hit when his margin is called.”
“Oh, I see,” Simon said, not really understanding at all.
“What’s your business here?” a royal guardsman demanded before the clever young man had time to fully gather his wits. Simon simply repeated the explanation he’d already given at the front gate. The guardsman quickly determined Simon really was who he claimed to be.
“Come along then,” the guardsman ushered him toward the thrones at the end of the great hall straight-away. “Our good king could use a bit of entertainment at the moment, I dare say.”
With that, the potter’s son found himself at the foot of the royal throne. The good king sat upon it, cutting a regal figure of calm in the middle of a noble storm. At his side, much to the amazement of the clever young man, sat the most exquisite young woman he had ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon. He knew in an instant she was the daughter of the good king…the royal princess.
He also knew in an instant that he was very much in love with her.
“Sing for the king, young Simon,” the guardsman prodded. So the potter’s son drew forth his mandolin. He strummed it once or twice to give his nimble fingers a running start. Then, he filled the great hall with a new melody no one had ever heard before. At once, the great hall became quiet except for Simon’s music. Presently, he began to sing in a strong, clear voice:
Slickerie’s Slackery stock
Came charging off the block.
The price got hot,
Then down it shot.
The market just sank like a rock.
The good king stared intently at the potter’s son for an endless moment. Then he slapped his hands on his knees and roared with laughter. Around the court, the nobility visibly relaxed. The great room filled with the sound of their polite, yet enthusiastic applause.
“Well done, young Simon,” the good king declared. By his side, his daughter, the fair princess, beamed her prettiest smile approval down on the young poet. Simon’s eyes met hers, and his face reflected her wide and happy smile. “Welcome to our court,” the good king continued. “You are a breath of fresh air.”
Simon remained with the court, playing witty ditties each evening after supper. By day, he composed more in a comfortable room the good king provided for him in a near tower of the castle. His music soon drew royal visitors from near and far, which bestowed more than just a fair amount of additional prestige on his patron, the good king.
“He’s our greatest light,” he overheard the good king telling a neighboring monarch at a feast one night. “I knew from the moment I first heard of him that he would be a wonderful star in the galaxy of our court.”
When he was called upon to play, Simon treated the good king to a new song, composed on the spot in reply to his patron’s highest praise:
Sparkle, sparkle, little twink.
Who the heck you are, I think?
You can say you’ll be a star.
But, we know you won’t get far.
Sparkle, sparkle, little twink.
Watch fame go in just a blink.
In the light of all the new attention lavished upon him, Simon flourished. He responded to the laughter and applause of the king and his court with a wide and happy smile. He remained thoroughly in love with the good king’s daughter, the fair princess. By evening’s last light, he would repair to his room in a near tower of the castle and compose poetry and plays for her, because he aspired to be more than what he already was, which was simply adored by all who knew him.
His fluid style reflected the lofty goals of his high aspirations. Propelled by his prolific love, he churned out page after page of verse. No longer did he trifle with the silly ditties he’d played for simple amusement. He wrote on eloquent themes, blending them into passionate portraits. Soon, he had an extraordinary volume of exquisite material tucked away beneath his mattress.
Time passed, as time always does, until one day, when a new visitor presented himself to the good king’s court. It was a handsome young prince, just visiting on his way to the Holy Land to wrest control of that which belonged to True Believers everywhere from the grasp of the Heathen Infidel.
Simon could see from the expression on the good king’s face that he was more than just a little impressed by the handsome young prince’s mission. What’s more, the potter’s son could also see from the expression on the face of the good king’s daughter that she was instantly taken by the handsome young prince.
At that moment, Simon perceived he simply was no longer at the center of his true love’s universe. In despair, he hastened to his room in a near tower of the castle, despite the call of his patron to honor the handsome prince with a clever ditty.
Desperate action was called for. Simon delved deeply into his collection of verse and drew forth a lovely sonnet. Without signing it (because he knew his only love could not fail to recognize the unique talent behind the composition), he sealed it with a simple drop of wax and dropped it in the castle’s interoffice mail slot, addressed to her most beautiful of highnesses, the fair princess.
That afternoon, a mail-room clerk dropped the sonnet in the princess’s in-box. In the privacy of her room, she unfolded it and read:
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check’d even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
The fair princess was absolutely overcome by the sonnet. She flushed a deep, royal crimson shade. At evening’s time, she made her attendants attend her with redoubled efforts, assuring her every tress was trussed truly. Every fold of her finest finery was fluffed for fullest effect and every detail of her appearance was, simply put, absolute perfection. Then she went forth to the royal feast in honor of the handsome young prince to meet her true love.
At dinner, she sat by the side of the handsome young prince, doting on his every word and gesture. This attention was not missed by the good king, who was pleased to see how his daughter had finally taken an interest in what was obviously a fine marital prospect.
Nor were her attentions missed by Simon, the potter’s son, who could not stand watching the love of his life lavish her affections on a rival. He bolted from the good king’s dining hall well before it was time for him to perform, leaving his patron with a somewhat startled and silly look on his face as the king wondered how he was going to entertain his important guest now.
Simon simply could not accept the idea his true love was taken with another. Once again in deep despair, he hastened to his room in a near tower of the castle. He delved deeply into his collection of verse, and drew forth his absolute-most lovely sonnet. Secure in the belief his love would know only he could compose such a masterpiece of romance, he sealed it without signing it and dropped it into the late-pick-up express delivery box, addressed to her most beautiful of highnessess, the fair princess.
Before morning’s first light, a messenger delivered the sonnet to the door of the princess’s private chambers. In the privacy of her room, she unfolded it and read:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all to short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
The fair princess was completely captivated by the sonnet. She was helpless in its’ tender embrace. Before she even took her toilet or bathed or dressed, she summoned her executive secretary and dictated a simple, yet direct note addressed to the handsome young prince. What that note said, simply, was this:
“Anything you ask, anything you say. The answer is Yes.” She signed it in her own hand with her most favored silver pen, then instructed her executive secretary to deliver it personally and immediately to the handsome young prince.
Before breakfast that very morning, the good king was announcing to the royal court that his daughter would be wed within the month to the handsome young prince. Great happiness flowed throughout the castle, except in the little room in a near tower. There, young Simon attacked his bed in a rage, pulling all the volumes of verse and plays from under it. “How can my Muse want subject to invent while thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse?” he wondered.
He pulled a sheet of parchment from his writing kit and penned one final verse which he attached to all the rest:
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate.
With that, he hurled his life’s work out the window of the small room in a near tower of the good king’s castle, straight down to the royal dumpster in the courtyard below. He dashed his precious mandolin against the frame of his bed and stormed out of the castle, never to be seen or heard from again.
But fate was kinder to young Simon’s writing. As fortune would have it, Will the Wog made his weekly scavaging run to the dumpster that very day. He was there before the royal collectors, who paid heavy kickbacks to the good king’s family, came to haul the garbage away.
Never having been accused of being overly bright, Will the Wog nonetheless recognized the poetry for what it was. He tucked it neatly into his rucksack and struck out immediately for a land where nobody knew who he was. There, he simply presented the plays and verse as his own, spinning them out one by one to maximize each piece’s profit potential.
When he died, he was proclaimed by one and all as the supreme bard. His name was remembered and revered through all the rest of written history.
Moral: Keep It Simple, Stupid.
