The best poem ever written in creation was penned by a Sir Archibald Fuchester Bradley in 1885 while staying at Fenwick Manor, located about a day’s travel northwest of London. It was such an astonishing feat even Sir Fuchester himself could not believe his own right hand. True his right hand had been good to him in the past, mixing sugar into his cup at teatime or to beg his second-cousin for a place to lodge. Yes, his right hand had been there for him at his most trying and lonesome times but never quite like this. Oh no, never like this. Little is known of Sir Archibald Fuchester Bradley, second cousin (twice removed) by marriage to the Duke of Fenwick and 298th in line to the British Crown in 1885. This fact would have been lost to history had it not been for the fanatical, insane-like work ethic of the Royal Historian in-charge at the time.
It must also be noted this Royal Historian’s quick succumbing to outright and full-fledged insanity soon thereafter brings the accuracy of the document into question. A quick glance at the British Royal Family tree at the time names a Rose bush outside Essex Castle as 299th and a metal pipe inside one of the mermen fountains in Trafalgar Square as 300st in-line to the throne of England.
One can only imagine the exertion required to create a tangible and concise map of the British Royal family, with its twisting vines caused by inbreeding and the endless stream of bastards weeding in and out thus culminating into an almost impossible, hair-pulling task. Insanity as a side effect can then very easily be justified as an alternative and explains why after 1886 the Royal Family tree only recorded up to a more manageable fifty individuals.
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On the night in question, Sir Fuchester picked the finished Masterpiece off the desk and marvelled at his genius. The depth, flow, word rhythm and sexual innuendos of this love poem oozed… no, savagely impregnated everything near it with wild romantic abandon. Good heavens if he actually dared to read it out loud.
This single page could, nay, would change the course of written history and if Shakespeare was any indication, pave a future for Sir Fuchester as a literary master of prose. Humility was surely to follow.
It was unfortunate then; when the sky fell that night. As a piece of rock from outer space the size of a cow came forth, as if it were a warning from the Heavens that no mere human should write words with the power as if written by God himself. Alas, God had nothing to do with this particular act of God, as he had taken this particular night off and was in the middle of enjoying a well-deserved nightcap.
The rock gained speed as it flamed through, illuminating the firmament like most cow-sized rocks do when they flame across the night sky.
Sir Archibald’s death was quick but far from painless. No, he felt it. That bitch hurt.
However he was unable to voice his disillusionment since by the time he realized what had happened his windpipe along with the rest of his body had just finished vaporizing.
However he was unable to voice his disillusionment since by the time he realized what had happened his windpipe along with the rest of his body had just finished vaporizing.
Although what was left of Fenwick Manor’s east wing could have been best be described as a hellish crater, Sir Fuchester’s ode had managed to miraculously survive the cow-rock thanks to the unbeknownst fortune of its author lifting the page off the desk at just the right time. As such, the gush of air created by the rock crushing the room forced the page from the author’s grasp and out the open window. Free to fly into the night and into the path of the goat which ate the poem for brunch the following morning.
Sadly the only witness to the magnificent act of creation that was the best poem ever written before being destroyed by a tragic and random occurrence comes from the personal journal of Mr. Whetten. Fenwick Manor’s head servant and victim of the now-deceased Sir Fuchester’s universally lame pranks, always hilarious to Sir Fuchester but unfunny to everyone else.
As such, a hundred years would pass before the world would know what fully occurred on the night of June 14th, 1885. Since after the Duke of Fenwick ordered the wing to be rebuilt, he opted to forget the entire affair and threw a picnic the next day. Then renamed the room where the disaster had taken place from 'Pity Guest Quarters,' to its current 'The East Fortune Room.'
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