Onion's Blair Chapel Epic...or Onion's Epic Blair Chapel

In the spirit of Blair Week, I read from a text of antiquity, one thought lost to us. Modern scholars, the few who have studied this tale, celebrate it as an epic rivaling those of Homer.
















Sing, O Goddess, of the cup, our chalice, seized from us,
snatched far off, to where it’s lusted over, stained, besmirched,
by Blairbarians, depravity made flesh, senseless
to know mountain from sea.
Fortify us, Sweet Siren, that we do not cower
at the utterance of this devil’s name: Buccaneer,
a seaman without sea or vessel, landlocked pirate,
turned hill and cave dweller, communal with snake and bear,
blissful in barbarity, base to the depths dark as night.
And there, beside such inequity, teeters our prize,
ever-glistening, warm to our hearts, a treasure rich,
so loyal and longing, to return here, to us, home
where it, the Potter Cup, serves as a symbol of our
triumph as men and women of promise and justice.


Beckon from within the Peddian, oh Muse, valor,
the strong arm that wields edged bronze and directs the spirit,
takes aim with ball and pierces the hopes of the hill tribe,
that Bucs might know a fitting grief, that they meet with wrath.
let Falcons bring just misfortune to Fortunato (Blair’s headmaster),
Let Peddians caste off scholar’s robes, veil tomorrow
the visage of peace, to take on the eye and clench of
triumph as gladiators, as victors, with the dawn.




















And with risen sun, warm upon the soaring Falcon
high above even the hopes of the mountain pirate,
the gods, always ready to reward those with values,
will bathe the bold blue and gold in the bright sheen of glory
as they board vessels and begin the long journey north,
where they shall look upon the fields and know then the place
that their foes, painted savage-style, in navy and grey,
will fall to the dust, tear-stained and hope-relinquished.
Peddian champions shall bestride Hampshire Field
and trample underfoot the Kroner and Underwood grounds.
The Buccaneer hearing Peddian footfalls will flee,
for this march will bring anew his nightmares of the sea’s
surging power, the very fears that drove Bucs to land.
Yet Buc retreat will gain them nothing, for they know,
raptor swift, fast as Mercury,  Peddie’s Brigid Greed
will chase them down—as the Falcon snatches witless prey.
Blairbarian phalanx will unfold before Peddie might.
Ryslik, our giant, Herculean, shall plow Blair fields with Blair bones.
In the days after this battle mountain babes shall weep
and then kneel at hearing of Borelli heroics.


 


















Stone, the hill and the man himself, will tremble when late
in his futile struggle the gods grant him the clarity
to know the Peddian general, DeLaurentis,
has done him in with more wits than brawn, proving to be
an Odysseus before so many shameless men
tempted to quench their hot thirst at our beloved Cup.
And even with this, our labors will be begun anew.
Imbued with Athena’s vast courage, the Lady Treese
will lead that bold club-wielding sisterhood, to smote all
for ball, goal and glory.

Falcon wings, positioned above, will blot out the sun
eclipsing all light, and the dark of Peddien blue,
like a god-sent pestilence, shall sweep across Blairstown
Surviving Bucs will run blind, stumbling over the crooks
and stones. Betrayed by the land, Bucs will be truly lost.
Peddiens will not have cheer in shadow. Aware of
victory, the prize Cup begins to gleam and vibrate.
Its sheen guides Peddiens across ragged, bloodied fields;
as the clamor of blue and gold voices, now so close
to the Potter Cup, calling for their leader, tall Quinn,
rises to the very heavens. Birds in flight, even winds
go still. Peddiens still fresh with the strength of battle,
their blue and gold hearts pounding, will raise hands high above heads,
and across Peddien faces is felt the cup’s warmth,
and our cup will brighten like the mid-day sun, soaring
higher and higher still in Tall Quinn’s triumphant hands.

Good Peddians know: Blairbarian halls shall echo
with Peddian names, blue and gold deeds, and in the cold
night, battle-broken, they desperately, shall tip-toe,
seeking Peddie’s Jude Lindberg, abandoned by cruel gods
to live amongst Blairbarians. And they shall beg him,
“Explain to us, who long to know, why they surpass us?”

And noble Jude, with the divine voices of the heavens,
shall unfold his blue and gold heart with this hero’s truth:

Ala Viva!

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