Hoof beats echoed through the dale;
A knight in armor galumphed up the hill:
Ga-lumph, ga-lumph, ga-lumph . . .
Then, “Whoa!” he cried, the steed stood still.
It’s Sir Lancelot, a brave and noble knight,
The champion of Queen Guinevere
Who soon succumbed to her charm--
And that is quite true, for I was there.
But, on with this tale of an illicit love:
The queen who had been Lance’s gentle foe
Turned into a (psst . . . adulteress). And the king?
He knew, but kept on thinking, No, that can’t be so.
Soon, gossip flew left and right. While the King
Was in Scotland--hunting for--whatever for,
Conspiring iron-clad men came charging
To the queen’s chamber and knocked down the door
To take her into custody. Lancelothad flown the coop
But the queen was bound to the stake;
Some cretins yelled, “Okay, let’s light the pyre,”
But Lance rode up and ruined the royal bake.
He slew each and everyone that stood in his way
To save his Guinevere from a terrible fate,
Extinguished the flames that licked at her robe--
Did I mention she was just a trifle overweight?
(Here, in a quantum leap, Merlin has Shakespeare tell the henchmen)
“Marry, knaves, don’t make a lamp of her, because
Her rags and lard will burn a Poland winter, and
If she lives till doomsday, she will burn a week
Longer than the world!”
(Oh, let’s get on with this doggerel!)
He heaved her upon his swift steed
And on they rode filled with remorse;
It’s true, I felt quite sorry for those two,
But mostly--for that poor swayback horse.
The queen lived out her final days
As a cloistered, even saintly nun,
While Lancelot became a repentant recluse--
And Merlin? Heck, he wrote this just for fun.