Futile Legendarium

Imaginary vexilology, a word
best reserved for specialists and
drunken conversation, competition
for numb tongued mispronunciation
on wide benches with chain mail clinking
charts for privilege and condescension
unfurled, flapping, slack jaws
and itchy crossbow fingers,
round tables and banners thatching
humble hole chimneyed hovels.

Gold laden Templars bring news
their limited liabilities insist
on Nina, Pinta, and Saint Mary,
caught on wayward winds, proving hypotheses;
stuck on windward palms,
no currencied return, the only apple
stolen from Eve’s teeth,
the milk of Seth’s nativity,
now skimming orientalis, pillars bound
leaky tubs leached by sturdy chirurgeons.

Excising futile legendarium
exhausts fairy papists.

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