Robin Hood, oh Robin Hood, robbing the rich, to keep out of the hood.
And is he good? Oh is he good? Is this the right question to ask.
He may be the only vigilante who doesn’t wear a mask.
Who prefers a laugh, not so good with a staff, and then again,
a hero who actually accepts help from his friends.
Unheard of. This word love. Before there was a Marian around.
Light turquoise, pastel aqua, gold trimmed, shimmering gown.
Her Robin may be a wanted man, but that smile she wears is criminal.
Her power over him subliminal, in almost every single way, but minimal.
But would he be the Robin Hood he seems, if he let her steal his show. I think no.
Feathered arrow through the heart of a bent bow. Bouncing apples in the pale palms
of kids in costumes. Filling up the room, full with so many not so tiny voices.
These people lined up in chairs, seated, are afraid of all our choices.
They fear our volume. They fear the light. They fear to be on stage at night.
Actors do not have these fears.
The merry inhabitants of Sherwood do not share their tears.
We are fighters, and delighters, and inciters and even fools.
We are not led by Robin. Because we are not led by rules.
And if he ever forgot. If he took a step down the path of prideful Prince John.
If ever there was an if, when Robin fancied himself sheriff.
Then we would rob him good. Robin Hood.
Who has never been as real, as his call to steal,
what was already rightfully owned by us anyway.
So if nothing else. Not another word, if, from me, you’ll hear no more,
then let me go ahead and tell you the great lesson hidden
in the blessing I stole from this old faded English fable.
Be glad. Be merry.
Smile until your face is sore.
And no one, not Kings or Princes,
not even the meanest Lady Merle in the world,
can rightfully call you poor.