Rolph David
Carnival's Birth and the Celebration of St. Martin
At eleven eleven, the carnival's cheer,
The morn of November, the season draws near.
Elferrat, the committee, in jest and delight,
Mocking the order, in numbers so bright.
Ten Commandments, world's stern direction,
Twelve, apostles, joyous reflection.
Yet eleven, the rebel, Christian lore defies,
Defying the norms, chaos it plies.
Liquor's small number, the clock's final chime,
A challenge to order, in carnival's prime.
In the 19th century, politics at play,
Elferrat jests, in Germany's array.
A theory whispers, French Revolution's tease,
Elferrat mocks with "ELF," aiming to appease.
Absurd it may be, for liberty comes first,
In revolution's tale, where equality is immersed.
In thirteen thirty-one, a carnival's birth,
Geckenverein zu Kleve, joy for all worth.
"Ey, lustig, fröhlich," their slogan to share,
Abbreviated, precisely, to "Elf," on festive air.
Eighteen twenty-three, Prussia's demand,
Carnival organised, spreading through the land.
On eleven in November, a chosen date,
Before Three Kings' Day, joy to create.
Farmers mark this hour, the end of their toil,
A second Thanksgiving, the harvest's royal.
Wine ready to drink, fields in repose,
Maidservants and farmhands, their joy overflows.
St. Martin's Day, a Roman tale that's told,
A soldier's compassion in winter's cold.
His cloak divided, a beggar's fate reversed,
In dreams, Jesus revealed, and faith immersed.
Bishop of Tours, for thirty years led,
Miracles performed, in legends spread.
On eleven November, he found his rest,
Canonised later, by pious bequest.
Patron saint of winegrowers, weavers, and tailors,
St. Martin cared for beggars, soldiers, and sailors.
The geese's fate, a tale with cackling sound,
In the church, their discordance was found.
Loud cackling or dues in feudal pay,
St. Martin's geese faced a fate that day.
Eleven November, a dual event's cheer,
Taxes due, a feast before the fast is near.
The morn of November, the season draws near.
Elferrat, the committee, in jest and delight,
Mocking the order, in numbers so bright.
Ten Commandments, world's stern direction,
Twelve, apostles, joyous reflection.
Yet eleven, the rebel, Christian lore defies,
Defying the norms, chaos it plies.
Liquor's small number, the clock's final chime,
A challenge to order, in carnival's prime.
In the 19th century, politics at play,
Elferrat jests, in Germany's array.
A theory whispers, French Revolution's tease,
Elferrat mocks with "ELF," aiming to appease.
Absurd it may be, for liberty comes first,
In revolution's tale, where equality is immersed.
In thirteen thirty-one, a carnival's birth,
Geckenverein zu Kleve, joy for all worth.
"Ey, lustig, fröhlich," their slogan to share,
Abbreviated, precisely, to "Elf," on festive air.
Eighteen twenty-three, Prussia's demand,
Carnival organised, spreading through the land.
On eleven in November, a chosen date,
Before Three Kings' Day, joy to create.
Farmers mark this hour, the end of their toil,
A second Thanksgiving, the harvest's royal.
Wine ready to drink, fields in repose,
Maidservants and farmhands, their joy overflows.
St. Martin's Day, a Roman tale that's told,
A soldier's compassion in winter's cold.
His cloak divided, a beggar's fate reversed,
In dreams, Jesus revealed, and faith immersed.
Bishop of Tours, for thirty years led,
Miracles performed, in legends spread.
On eleven November, he found his rest,
Canonised later, by pious bequest.
Patron saint of winegrowers, weavers, and tailors,
St. Martin cared for beggars, soldiers, and sailors.
The geese's fate, a tale with cackling sound,
In the church, their discordance was found.
Loud cackling or dues in feudal pay,
St. Martin's geese faced a fate that day.
Eleven November, a dual event's cheer,
Taxes due, a feast before the fast is near.
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Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 11.11.2023.
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