It was a day in the month of May
But not yet time for making hay.
Once more the world was gay and bright
For every courtly lady and her gallant knight
In Camelot. King Arthur married his young queen
And then they picnicked on the castle green,
Munching chicken legs and mutton--
Wow! she proved to be a real glutton;
But in those days of old--(I should say “yore”)
Ladies ate, and ate, and ate some more,
‘cuz ‘fitness’ had not yet come into style . . .
For that—she would have had to wait a while,
Like another fifteen-hundred years and even more,
But meantime, she wouldn’t fit through a wide barn door.
The knights quaff ale and brag of battle,
Dragons they had killed and such prattle
While the queen and her handmaidens sing
Songs of love--and long to try a risky thing . . . .
(Oops! I spilled my coffee, ruined the pages,
Right up to the gloomy Middle Ages . . . .)
But that’s not the story I had meant to tell;
Mine is the one that doesn’t end too well.
Want to hear another stor-y
Exactly like the one befor-y? Nooo!