A Swashbuckler's Day Job

By: Kottke Posted on: June 28, 2004

Oh how I enjoy duels in our guildhall's courtyard,

After an enjoyable day of music befitting a Bard.

Back and forth, flashing whirlwinds of steel,

Under the evening sky of dark teal.

But fencing doesn't pay many bills,

And recitals won't earn me coin up to my gills.

It won't help me out when I need to ink a new boar,

And if I sing all day, I'll be bankrupt forever more.

So I stalk through the streets of fair Cyrene,

Through the alleyways so serpentine.

Trying to find an unworthy opponent,

Beginning a task I find most abhorrent.

Yes, I am a ratter, a scourge of the sewer,

An expert hunter of those tiny wrongdoers.

Although it's a job I hate it's barely an exaggeration

To say that my choices are either rats or starvation.

Why I dread ratting so completely,

Why does it bring me such complete agony?

Why do I look upon it with such disdain,

Why does it nearly give me migraines?

Well, do you observe my rapier, in the light shining?

That finely built weapon that you're clearly admiring?

Even with a worthy opponent in absentia,

This weapon was not built to stab assorted rodentia.

By our swashbuckling teachers, we're taught speed, variety and style.

We're made unpredictable, graceful, and we're praised for our guile.

We're taught to make useless our opponents' tactics,

Along with learning powerful strikes and acrobatics.

But the strategies used by an average black rat

Are hardly impressive, if even that.

They simply rush at you with considerable zeal,

And sort of attempt to nibble on your heel.

So ratting in itself can really become quite boring,

And I'd much rather write songs or go exploring.

But it pays, and I really can't afford to be a snob.

And that's the reality of a swashbuckler's day job.