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, and 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.