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A true story
Once upon a time, in a grove far, far away, there was an Archdruid doing a ritual. It had all gone very well. The circle was large and quite circular, there was someone who knew how to blow the winding-horn, everyone remembered all of the things they were supposed to say, and the obligatory visiting American had been really quite concise in her remarks. And now it was time for the mead, for which a fine new drinking-horn had been provided.
The Archdruid didn't even have to snap his fingers; into his waiting hand his adroit Meadmaster had already placed the bottle, its cork neatly drawn. With solemn ceremony the Archdruid started slowly to pour the mead into the waiting horn.
"My word," he thought a few seconds later. "This horn's enormous. I do hope we've got another bottle ready." As this thought crossed his mind, so a curious sensation crossed his nether regions: cold, damp and somewhat sticky. As a middle-aged gentleman he naturally put this down to yet another mere intimation of mortality, maintained his air of quiet optimism, and continued to pour until his aim was disturbed by a jab in the ribs.
"Stop that!" he hissed. "It pleasures me not any more."
"Oi! OI!" said the Meadmaster.
"What?"
"That's the winding horn."
Call for Peace
May there be peace in the East
May there be peace in the South
May there be peace in the West
May there be peace in the North
May there be peace throughout
the whole world
