There is a river on the edge of the Edgelands
a river deep and swift.
There is a bridge o’er the river on the Edgelands
cross so you may not drift.
There is an inn in the bridge o’er the river
spilling gold with light.
An inn in the bridge o’er the river of the Edgelands
where wanderers spend the night.
If you arrive dripping on the doormat
a hearth shall melt your chill.
If you toss a copper on the counter
you may eat your fill.
If you take a table in the corner.
they’ll bring apple cider and stew
A hearth and a mug and a table
and the common room to view.
When you listen to the roar of voices
you’ll hear laughter and a tale.
When you look upon those gathered
nymph, gnome and avian hail.
When you breathe in deep and long
you’ll smell smoked sausage yon.
Oh, bright rings this party of wanderers
until the break of dawn.
I wonder on the elven mistral;
he sings a song I do not know.
I wonder on the rosy innkeep
with her gnome assistant in tow.
I wonder on the spring-green nymph;
she eats a purplish pie.
Their lives and stories wind on;
I’m but a passerby.
docendo disco, scribendo cogito,
– Millie Florence