sharpnelshell:

enochtopus:

congruentepitheton:

It had almost escaped my notice that it is now May, the month that dooms to a heartbroken death 99% of characters from folk ballads. So, if you suspect you may be a character from a folk ballad, for your own safety: 

don’t fall in love, don’t go by the river, don’t go to the sea, don’t talk to sailors, don’t gamble, don’t ramble, don’t go North, don’t go North-West, don’t stand in the wind, don’t dance with anyone named Sally, Sue, Mary, Ann, or Barbara, don’t go to the pub (but if you do go to the pub at least don’t drink, and if you do drink at least pay for your own drink, and if you are absolutely broke and have to let someone else pay for your drink then at the very least do try not to forget to toast everyone you know whom you think might be there very loudly and possibly multiple times), don’t lend money, don’t borrow money, don’t wish you had more money, don’t make plans to make more money, don’t start working for a new employer, absolutely do believe anyone who says they will try to kill you, curse you, or maim you, absolutely do believe anyone who says you might die, turn down every invitation to go a-hunting, horse-riding, or a-courting, be wary of flute players you meet on your path, don’t dance with satanic men in black coats, don’t marry off your daughters to the first man who’ll have them, and don’t promise your true love any herbs you can’t readily plant and gather in your own garden. 

There. That should just about cover you for 31 days. Heed the warnings and you may have a chance to last the month. Good luck.

Listen asshole. For every beginning, an end. For all that lives, a death. I’m not gonna bail out of adventure and fuck mothering magick because its ~dangerous~ or ~ill-adviced~. I shall face my demise with valor and piss and vinegar and reach Heaven through Violence. Just try and stop me you shit eating coward.

Come gather, ye tumblrmen that surf the wide net,

Come listen to the tale of sir Enochtopus’ death,

How cheerfully he marched out, one morn in early may,
And with a hey-down-a-down he met a wat’ry grave.

‘Twas early in the morning, ‘twas early early May,

When our good Enochtopus set out for the bay,

He met a little lass, sweet and pretty as can be,

She stabbed him in the back and kicked him in the sea.

But Enochtopus was unafraid to die, was unafraid to roam,
And with a hey-down-a-down, they hurried him back home.
He was still a-breathing, still a-singing down-a-down,
As they shovelled earth and sank him into the ground.

Perhaps you have a mother, likewise a sister too,
Perhaps you have a sweetheart to weep and mourn for you,
But good and brave Enochtopus had vinegar and piss
And in heaven he sings down-a-down upon unbending knees.