A knight in armor, worn and grey
marauded a domain unknown.
His way was pacified this day
by a damsel’s cheery tone.
She asked, solemn, from whence he came,
his lowered guard did he betray.
I am a man of honor, he did claim;
I serve the King of modern day.
Upon this word, she smote the knight
a head fell quick upon the land.
A damsel not, a terrible might,
a twisted face, a gnarled hand.
“Better served would ye have been,
had truth not visited your lips.
Now crimson does your death begin
and life, it slowly drips.”
O, for tragic honesty, the slain
have mourned so long.
If he’d but cunningly explain
the rhyme and reason to this song.