Where were we?
The princess keeps longing
From her high-up window.
Last attempt Sir Belliveau
Had bested four vicious
Swordsmen
And whistled and mounted
His trusty steed Champion
Draped in deep blue sheets.
Leaving the swarthy grimacing
Uncouth ones, bruised and cut
And cussing his name.
Belliveau is deep in the woods
Revitalizing
Bagged venison French bread
Chelsea cheese and mead.
His horse munches
The ever-pleasing oats.
The day after tomorrow
A new approach
With Grappling hook
And rope tossed.
Other end tied to
Champion's saddle held taut
For hand over hand.
All Armour removed.
Hopefully ascending to
His loved One's embrace.
What's that Mom?
Already 8 thirty?
Gotta quit.
Let's try to remember
For resumption.
Nite nite Babe.
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