'Twas A Good Day

Ice Cube

Awake, awake! I pray my thanks to God

For this strange day’s rare, wondrous fantasies.

The cur lieth quiet, air lieth light.

I alight on a meal fit for Shylock

And content myself with the light breakfast.

I received a letter from the maiden,

Whom I pray may finally share her fruits,

And I sent forth to attend her tonight.

Forecasting my future in plagued times

‘Fore casting myself out into my cart,

Delighting as did once the chariots.

Upon brief respite, mine eyes trace the grounds.

O what relief: the knaves are all scatter’d

And for the peace I often hold such strife.

A message arrived from a wench, O,

Whose watery moon glimmers through the night.

I seek the friends playing at bowls for sport

For I kiss’d the jack, desired mistress,

And won a brave game when last we played.

Upon the field, I triumph as Ares

Dreaming a dream that’s touched by fairies.


I returned home to cleanse my foul parts.

Following hair-breadth scapes, Fortune or merth

Quieted the tumult of yesterday.

The boasting enemy that haunts our land

Was haply struck by blindness and did not

Mark me in the manner of those false dogs.

We study lines at my pupil’s lodging

Till weary minds seek chance for sustenance.

Prepare up dice for playing at Bone-Ace.

Behold: not fullams, still the bones obey.

One-and-thirty, again one-and-thirty,

I vanquish my foes; no pip out today.

Crown-filled purse heavy, let us to sitting

For another victory at shove groat.

No soldiers struck down by sword or by maul

Zounds, more such days as these to us befall!


I put money in my purse and left to

Pluck a flower I have long admired

From a garden of herbs with ale mixed.

While my sailors thriv’d ‘gainst insolent foes

I hoisted myself upon a mountain.

The seamen pour’d like tide into the breach,

Plunged, descrying some secret treasure,

And the fierce event my flower wilted.

Awaken! We must obey the time. And

With nectar overflowing from her mouth.

I piloted her back to her garden.

Carouse again! Drank I the potation

And thrust myself apace into the dream

Belike some counterfeit realm of sweet luck.

The constables, now slumbering in peace,

Caged vile vultures that seek carrion.

We sup untroubled on beef and mustard,

My name and my colours blazon’d on high.

‘Exalt the fierce, young bawd,’ quoth Mercury.

Though I am pottle-deep, I hold my drink

While my messenger presents late letters.

I didn’t e’en brandish my rapier

Forsooth a dream, but never happier.