June 27, 2025

We found a quiver there

With a few sharpened arrows,

Must have fallen from his belt

As he raced away from Nottingham.

A rush of euphoria fell over us

Who never dare leave our quarters,

To see something that was his

Elevates our fascination to frenzy.

It doesn’t take long for all to get word

He’d made an appearance in town,

Maid-less, Merry-less, the Prince reeling in defense.

Rumor is that he barely pulled his bow,

Although onlookers claim he'd clearly aimed,

Then nodded gallantly as he galloped away.

"But what about these shafts," the people ask, 

"Left discarded on the ground.

Surely, he intended to use them,

To impress, improve, our wretched lot.”

This is the good thing about a myth,

And the problem with it too.

We can revel in the intoxicating lore

Or we can decide to dig deeper.

While all get a-quiver about a mere quiver,

Someone needs to wander into Sherwood Forest,

Strike up a conversation with the tired fucks,

Get a sense of what is truth, and what is not,

Bring back the written record of our hero hood.