Morde D'arthur (Arthur's Bite) In The Style Of Morte D'arthur (Tennyson) Poem by Nick John Whittle

And Lo! King Arthur, born of all England
Spake to his brethren armed and sashed:
'It's come to my attention just,
That the toilet-block's been trashed.'

A noble gasp did ripple about
The table round and round, and round
And Sir Tristan gasped upon his apple
Thence choked and hit the ground.

'Last night, ' saith the King as he threw a look,
'The toilets down the hall
Had doors a-broken and mirrors smashed,
And piss all up the wall.'

Though such a heinous, miserable act
Seems en face quite shocking and absurd,
The toilets had been wrecked before
When Guinevere birthed a turd.

But this time what did matter most
Were the honest bones of mighty men,
For only where honest hearts are found
Can a decorated warrior to his liege be bound.
And aye where the dishonest hearts do lie
The spiky serpent seeks to strike,
And no Prince ought to bear the fear
Of being stricken with a spike.

Now arose King Arthur, King of all,
And about his table walked he tall
Until he reached Sir Lancelot
Whose fingers squeezed a gnarly spot.

'What say you Lacky, ' the King doth ask
'Were you messing around the middle mere?
Or did you perchance see Guinevere
For a good old late-night bite?

Du Lac he went bright crimson-faced,
And a guilty bottom-squeak popped out.
He told his King he was misplaced,
But sought some cream to treat his gout.
The King he knew his sire was true,
At least about the cream,
But from what he'd heard around the place
He'd definitely porked the Queen.

From then Pendragon walked around
And studied well his men
Their faces, how they sat and looked,
And how they held their pens.
Sir Gawain, the King knew, was not the vandal
Nor Percy, nor The Bors,
But not convinced was our good King
Of Sir Geraint's slippery paws.

'Who are you, Geraint? ' the King asked.
'I know not a thing about you.
You could be the type who digs the hype
Of protein shakes and gym juice.
Perhaps it was you, mine beefy knight
Who damaged all the bogs?
With all those raging manly hormones
You struck out like a dog.'

But Geraint in a surprisingly weedy voice
Replied thus to the King:
That he may look hench and fit and stuff,
But he's as weak as a piece of string.
And anyway he was out of sight last night.
Sat snug on a floating barge,
For ‘twas the night he flower pressed
With Pinel le Savage.

Thence did the mighty Sir Gaheris
His feet adorned with clogs
Stand fast and yell: 'Leave Geraint alone,
For ‘twas I who wrecked the bogs! '

Yet the wise and worldy King of all
Knew Gaheris was merely bluffing.
How could he have been the guilty man
When his arms are packed with stuffing?

'Sit down Gaheris, ' saith loudly the King
As he spied his most gallant lads,
And there knelt he ‘twix the last accused:
Sir Bedivere and Sir Galahad.

'Seems it boils right down to dumb and dumber, '
The King saith, raising a laugh.
'What're you going to pull from the bag? '
He asked the great Ga-lath.

Sir Galahad did shuffle more and more
Then said in quiet fright:
'Sir Bedivere was the last man, my Lord
To use the loo at night.'
At this, Sir B, he bolted up,
And said OK, I'll bite!
I was the one who sat there last
But I didn't use my might!

'As I did finish my ablutions
A woman's hand rose up
Appearing from the pan below
And grabbing hard my butt.
But that's not all, my trusty laird,
For once she had my buttock
She poked a sneaky finger forth
And slowly headed north.'

'Bollocks! ' the King Pendragon growled.
'You all have let me down, yes you!
The one who did the deed last night
We know lies on the ground:
Sir Tristan is the culprit,
Pretending to be dead!
Look ye see him breathing
He's even moved his head! '

At this sir Tristan stood up slowly,
Feigning a mystic return to life,
Then he stared around the goodly place
Like he'd seen the milky light-y.
But King Arthur none the fool was he
To Tristan he did charge,
And as he charged his hand did clench
Excalibur large and mighty.

At this Merlin quickly appeared from a mist
And bellowed, 'Leave him be!
For ‘twas I who caused the damaged bog
As your trial of mystery.
Alas, by your spite and meanness of spirit,
You've failed the gentle foray.
Now go away, think on your mood
Then come back and say you're sorry.

'Your men are good and true and fierce
You need to trust the process.
They'll follow you to hell and back
And they'll do it with finesse.
So now let free your knightly men
For they need to drink and laugh,
And handsome Tristan can come with me,
So he can lie down by the hearth.'