Arthur and Guinevere
Eyelids gently drooping,
drowsing on the porch swing,
eighty-three years old and feeling grand,
reveries of cherished times
when he was a lad in Merry England.
In his hands the uniform
that he wore in childhood,
when he was a knight upon his steed,
a champion in his armour,
boldly defending damsels in dire need.
Ruler of the Empire,
everyone his subject,
all, that is, except for Mary Jane.
She made him blush and stammer,
he flushed like crazy when she spoke his name!
She was his Guinevere,
he her brave King Arthur,
she was six years old and he was too,
he loved her with a passion
and promised that he'd be forever true.
In later years he worried,
tried to do the right thing,
his wife was right beside him all the way;
he never had to wonder,
her faithfulness grew stronger every day
He had a fruitful life,
simply could not complain,
all his needs and pleasures were forseen,
for he shared it with the girl
who'd once portrayed King Arthur's lovely Queen.
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