We walk at dusk where lake and land collide,
a bunch of flighty poets, fey and airy,
ignoring – as is English, customary –
these words of warning from our native guide:
“In forests north of Balaton she hides,
a wild and furtive naked woodland faerie,
seducing those that stray, and the unwary,
who wander lost upon her mountainsides.”
We shrug, harrumph: “That doesn’t sound that bad!
What harm’s a small seduction between friends?
You’re overdramatizing, my dear chap!”
and trek off, North, like shop-soiled Galahads.
Predictably, this witless story ends
with fewer boots and one more dose of clap.