Lament for Pennsic War Garb

The filth and mud of Cooper's Lake embedded in my skirt.
And ev'ry where I go I carry with me Pennsic dirt.
And rain has made the mold begin to grow upon my shirt.
And my war garb won't come clean!

From camp down in the gulley, a fair lady's moan doth sound,
Her veil is soiled, her three-foot train's been draggin' on the ground.
Her white chemise is edge now with dark grime all around.
And her war garb won't come clean!

Beside the lake, some Samurai have nearly lost their "face"
Their hipari and their hakama are now a great disgrace.
And on the hill a Cavalier doth weep into his lace.
And their war garb won't come clean!

The Celts and Scots and Romans will never see the mirth
Of tunics, kilts and chitons all well-marked with Pennsic earth.
And Saturday in all the camps, of clean garb there's a dearth.
And their war garb won't come clean!

Up on the ridge it's sad to hear the cries of royalty.
The rain and mud has ruined all of their court finery.
Of Pennsic soil not even our brave Peerage will be free.
And their war garb won't come clean!

As their strip off their armor you can hear the fighters groan.
Their tunics are so filthy that they'll stand up on their own and you can smell them coming when their half a mile from home.
And their war garb won't come clean!

Next year clad in Tuchux dress, at Pennsic I'll be seen,
For Tuchux leather diapers are so little to keep clean!
Or better yet, I'll wrap myself in vines of forest green!
And my war garb will stay clean!

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