(written with my tongue in my cheek, my hands on my hips,
and my nose in the air – children, do not try this at home)
I met a man some time ago,
beside the old High Road.
He asked me whither I would go,
he bade me rest my load.
His doublet had a pearled jabot,
pteruges, sleeves that flowed;
he asked me what I wished to know,
beside the old High Road.
Upon his bench he set a stall,
beside the old Highway,
with cups, and coins, and swords, and all,
and said “I will soothsay.
All Nature answereth my call,
no man can say me nay;
I can raise up, I must let fall,
beside the old Highway.”
His beaver hat was lemniscate,
beside the road to Town,
which is to say a figure-eight
gave shadow to his crown;
a yellow thatch sprung from his pate,
its ringlets hanging down.
His words gushed like the Rhine in spate,
beside the road to Town.
He said to me, “Nu, zay nisht beyz’”
beside the Avenue.
“I’ll tell you all the mantic ways
of Which, and How, and Who.”
And from his sleeves he drew bouquets
of Pink, and Green, and Blue –
“Abba-Dabar” was his catchphrase,
beside the Avenue.
I took him for a Mountebank,
beside the old Towpath,
that peeped and muttered, with an ankh
scribed on his wand of lath;
or was he German, Celt, or Frank?
“For sure,” thought I, “He hath
an eldritch air, a touch of swank,
beside the old Towpath!”
“In my land, dwellings with mansards,
beside the Country Lane,”
he said, “have in their sparse dooryards
a trug of blue wolfsbane,
a driftwood cross, a pile of shards –
a shattered windowpane.
Come friend, please buy my pack of cards,
beside the Country Lane.”
I took a shilling from my purse
beside the Old, Straight Track.
I took the cards and, with a curse,
I put them in my pack,
as though his offer did coerce –
I could not give them back!
The dyke and fence he did traverse,
beside the Old, Straight Track.
I have not seen him from that time,
beside the Thoroughfare,
although through every land and clime
I’ve sought him here and there.
I’ve had word of his sleight and mime,
at country wake and fair,
as fickle as the new springtime,
beside the Thoroughfare.
I have heard tell that Woden, blind,
beside the Great Turnpike,
where gibbets creak and nooses wind,
walks by the misty dyke;
I’ve heard the Flying Dutchman pined
to slip ashore and strike
his foot upon the tussocks, twined
beside the Great Turnpike.
Along the weary moorland trench,
beside the Boluevard,
amongst the Romany, the French,
the Breton Campagnardes,
I searched in vain; but then – oy mensh,
the canny old canard! –
I found his old three-legged bench
beside the Boulevard!
No more I search, but set my stall
beside the Old High Road.
Step up, mayn her – come one, come all –
your fortune I’ll decode.
Come, try my cards, see how they fall;
my scrying’s à la mode:
THE MOUNTEBANK – you’re in My thrall
beside the Old High Road.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
You shine in my eyes with this one, Golden Girl 
that's cliché at its finest ... 
