(with apologies to Lord Byron, whose ghost is coming after me with an axe)
He walks unsteadily, like a drunk
Yet selfless service and lofty rise;
And all that’s common of honor and light
Meet in his aspect and blood-shot eyes:
Thus mellowed to that blearier sight
Which king has tossed into dungeon applies.
One bottle the more, one wench the less,
Had greatly impaired his tipsy grace
Which heaves in every auburn tress,
Or roughly lightens over his reddened face;
Where thoughts naughtily rude express
How risqué, how debauched their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and over that brow,
So sloshed, so unconscious, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the cheeks that glow,
And tell of days in drinking spent,
A mind out cold to all about
A heart whose love is frivolously sent.
Such is Gwaine.