"The Day of Gintaras" by Three P's

Historia

credit where credit is due:

the novel was penned by Master Eco,

the song was written by some people and was performed by Tikki Shelyen

disclaimer: this text included ligatures -- just cause I like them.

Hiſtoria Monachi Theodori Hammelini

Now listen, brethren & sistren, to an occaſion of old,
 Itſ' author iſ uncomplicated, unlearnt of the wayſ of the world,

Thuſ heed to a truthful account; Now (almost) verbatim I tell:
The theologian of Hamelin fell 'n love with the Pythia of Delph'.

He waſ rather reſpected, & he waſ called Theodor, forſooth,
He haſ lost in scriptoria the ardent zeal of hiſ youth,

He thought the webſ of the Evil One never himſelf he ſhould feel,
But then, against all expectationſ, he underwent quite an ordeal.

Confeßionſ made him no better, nor prayer, nor a restrictive fast,
Hornſ & hoofs were hiſ viſionſ, & tailſ -- wherever he paßed.

ſome devilry waſ ſuſpected that he couldn't reaſon away,
ſo he wrote to Pontificuſ Maximuſ: " I'm dying & need help, I'd ſay"

From Flanderſ & from Hiſpania, & other neighbouring creedſ
There came viſitationſ, aſ Vatican haſ decreed,

The learnèd ſageſ convened there, forgetting about their age,
& with them came Jorge the Novice, an orphan (who all did aßwage).

A large & ſpaciouſ refectory was where the aßemblage took place,
& Theodor, haggard & weary, before them rested hiſ caſe:

"In one of the ancient grimoires I found a story one day,
&, once I've read it, my mind waſ completely blown away.

A tale of a hellinic maiden, called Pythia - that waſ her name,
To ſit on a tripod stark naked -- her doom that brought her ſuch fame,

My vivid imagination now yieldſ her delightful phyſique,
& I ſee now why our Creator, when he ſaw Eve, waſ ſo meek."

& he went on with hiſ narration, it really waſ rather at length,
The monkſ tried to listen in ſilence & mastered all their strength.

Quadratuſ, a monk of ſeverity, ſhowed Theodorus the door:
"You'd rather fuck off, frāter, which Peter told Judaſ to do."

An old monk called Iohanneſ ſpake thuſly, when hiſ turn came:
"You'd rather fuck off, frāter, but pray first, in Ieſuſ' name."

ſabelluſ, old & wisſned, cloſed hiſ Pſalmſ with a ſigh,
"Generally, you ſhould fuck off," - the monastery would imply.

& now Jorge the Novice diſrupted an erudite talk,
"I'm hearing ſome noiſe from without" -- which ſounded very ad hoc,

"It must be the papal nuncio, he ſhould deliver a bull"
But nuncio waſ told to fuck off, & he reſponded in full.

The Pope took no offenſe ever -- Vicariuſ Chriſti he's named --
But he interdicted Hamelin -- the phraſing was roughly the ſame.

Oh, ye Great ſchool of Christendom, the most ſevere of ſchoolſ!
A monk waſ commanded to fuck off -- & fuck off he did aſ a fool.

Now fucking off iſ an adventure - it takeſ more than a ſingle day,
& he ate a bowlful of buckwheat whene'er he stopped on hiſ way.

& ere he got to the Greek ruinſ, he wore out fourteen pairſ of bootſ,
He reached the goal he deſired -- and do there nothing he could.

In Delphi, where ancient stone panelſ ſupported the tripod of old,
"Go fuck yourſelf, lady!" he wrote -- deſpair made him ſo bold.

The whole population of Hamelin haſ ceaſeleßly laughed for three dayſ,
The merry ſhoutſ of "Fuck off!" addreßed the monkſ going their wayſ.

& now, be it wedding or christening, of youngsters be it or not,
"Fuck off, verily, fuck off!" -- the monkſ do ſay that a lot.

A peaſant ſaid to a peasſnt maid, "My dear, war iſ at hand:
The monkſ have gone non compoſ mentiſ, & ſatan will their mindſ mend,

The ſaints who dwell now in heaven have turned away their eyeſ,
The only ſound they can hear are the inceßant "fuck thee off" crieſ.

Vita is clearly breviſ, the yearſ have come and have paßed,
The monkſ have finally paßed away, & at heaven'ſ gate gathered en masse,

& Peter, who waſ a strict porter, locked the gateſ & said: "Halt!
You'd better fuck off, o fellaſ, you were not invited at all"

Now Jorge the Novice haſ aged since, & hiſ youth iſ now long gone,
He iſ now a mstter librarian, ſo in a ſenſe he haſ won.

He doeſn't look like a boy now, he'ſ a ſilver-haired man,
Treating all bookſ reſpectfully, he won't harm them again,

But, to prevent repetition of that god-awful nightmare,
Jorge found ſome curare, & the grimoire with it he did mar.

Time & again recollection tormentſ the poor man'ſ ſoul,
Then, ſecretly agitated & deeply anguisſed, he strollſ,

Viſiting the dusty bookſhelveſ, he bemoanſ hiſ fate:
"Fuck off, everyone with their bookſ!" -- & he walkſ with a curiouſ gait.