She rode in her beauty upon her horse back,
Through forest and meadow, down the horse track,
And she silently dreamed as she lay on the grass,
Wishing she was a princess in a palace of glass.

Ten miles away lived a colourful knight,
Named Sir Cecil of Smethwick, the Ladies’ Delight!
He wasn’t that handsome, but claimed he was so,
And word spreads so quickly, as most of us know.

Sir Cecil was strong, in his dreams was at least,
And in countless nightmares slain many a beast
With his battleaxe bloody, his sword and his shield,
And had won many wars on the grim battlefield.

But awake he was lonesome: “I’ve nothing to do”,
‘Twas the first thing he’d said that was even half true!
“And now I need a princess, a princess to hold
When the nights are like thunder and days are so cold.”

Like a tiger released he set out on his quest,
“I must find my queen who will calm my unrest.”
He had met several women, but they’d all detest
Him on account of the tattoo on his chest:

A picture of a lion, a picture of a mouse,
A picture of a picture and a picture of a house.
None of them liked his colourful tattoo,
Which a friend of his, Norbert, had scribblingly drew.

The artwork was poor and he liked it the same,
But he still walked alone with his head down in shame,
With loneliness deepening, sadness and pain,
He re-mounted his horse and then pulled on the rein,
And was running again.

Many years later, alone he was still,
He met with Contentment, who now had grown ill,
But when she first saw him, she smiled like the moon,
Saying: “I was so poorly, but I’ll be better soon.”

He smiled at her back in a genial way,
And said: “You are my princess, my sweet month of May,
And I was so lost, I was totally astray,
But that was until today.”

He got off his horse and he walked to her close,
And from out of his pocket he pulled forth a rose,
But she said: “I don’t want it, it’s withered and worn;
A fresh rose for me, you must pick it at dawn.”

With dread in his face now, he looked so dejected:
He’d made his advance, and she had rejected.
His hope was diminished, he could not carry on,
And three seconds later, he was hurriedly gone.

They both lived alone till the days that they died,
And had every day cried.
She’d said: “Oh that rose, I meant only to joke”,
And they burnt their remains, up they went into smoke.


© 2000 Matt Everett