King Arthur strides the camel lot his pointy shoes besmirched.
His thoughts had been on Guinevere; my dromedary lurched
and he, descendant from lost kings, had cannonballed in mire.
His crown when found warn’t one to wear till hosed off, cleansed with fire.
Perhaps it were a mite still warm; my monarch has scorched hair.
No airy heir, no hirsute hare, no night’s disordered garters
appease my king who cries he’ll fling my camel on the dump.
The bishop hastes to intervene, ‘Harrumph, it’s but one hump,’
but Arthur’s mad as when a lad and Merlin called him Wort.
I’d remonstrate had that a chance, but should I head him off?
He might then think of ‘Off their heads’ — the court might lose a toff
I’m passing fond of, seen it’s me. We’ll trot to Coventry,
my dromedary and my cat, my bagatelle and me
and wait the king’s displeasure out. Who knew he wore her heart
crocheted in silk on where he sat? I’ll send him Spandex hose
in the hope that they and passing time will end this morning’s spat.