A Year of Poems – Day 284

The dragon came at three o’clock
And carried away Sir Spearalot.
He cried to have the roles reversed
He knew it must be from a curse
In vain he fought against the scourge.
He knew that he was evil’s purge
And yet he could not take the reigns
And every action brought him pain.
And so Sir Spearalot did weep,
He thought of Eleanor in the keep
He knew she’d wait for him at eight
He thought she’d cry against the gate.
But though he pressed against the scales
It would not budge and he had failed.
Sir Spearalot took courage then
He would not die a weeping hen
But then the dragon squeezed him tight
And Spearalot wept despite his might.
For though in strength he was not matched
His emotional strength was barely hatched.
He knew the story would not end here
He was the chosen one, the bane of fear.
The dragon landed in his hidden lair
Sir Spearalot wished he was not there
His Golden sword was broken twain
His eyes were zigzagged with the strain
And when he saw the bloody hoard
He passed out with a might snore
I think you know how this story goes
Sir Spearalot is not preserved in prose
And so I will capture him here in rhyme
as a man who did not fight but whined.


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