The Legend of Cuthdell

In times of yore and days of old,
When men were men and knights were bold,
There was one lad whose his'try sits
Not on his valor nor his wits,
But on his girlish hissy-fits.

His name was Cuthdell, borne of Tyre.
Forced to venture with his squire
By his father, into th' world,
(The patriarch, with lips down-curled,
Had said "Goest thou, become less girl'd.")

And so it was they came to France,
Whereupon Cuthdell, happenstance,
In courtly intrigues there did see
A maiden comely; ask did he
About this Lady Chastity.

"She's not for thee!" he was admonished.
And asking why, he was astonished
To learn she was betrothed to one
So great of girth he blocked the sun—
The fearsome noble Boffington.

Cuthdell's squire knew at once
His Master would appear a dunce
Were he to seek the Lady's favor,
And told his charge, with voice a-quaver,
"'Tis time to flee, Sir, now or never."

Cuthdell made determined fists
(Which flapped, 'tis true, upon his wrists),
"Gainsay me not, I shan't be humbled!"
And to his steed he stumble-bumbled,
Donning armor (which he fumbled).

At the Pavilion, trumpets blared.
The vast assemblage laughed and stared,
For as the pennants flapped and flew,
O'er the concourse, closer drew
A gangly whelp, whom no-one knew.

Across the field, shield shining,
Boffington was heard opining,
"About my foes I'm not too fussy,
Yet look at this knave, the fool! Does he
Think I would fain best a wussie?"

"Where'd be the honor? Tell me, men,"
He scoffed, and scanned the crowd again,
To catch the glance of Chastity.
Who blushed, and with her 'kerchief she
Then waved him on to victory.

Our hero's chain-mail squeaked and clanked.
His horse's rump was gaily spanked—
Then down the field, hoof-beats thundered!
Raising his lance, fear-encumbered,
"Am I done for?" Cuthdell wondered,

His war-mount raced on down the course,
The viewers shouted themselves hoarse!
Behind his visor, Cuthdell cried,
Such terror swelling deep inside
His breast—but then—his steed miss'd stride!

From the saddle Chuthdell sped.
Just a hair's-breadth from his head
The lance of Boffington had missed!
Wherefrom the stands they booed and hissed
At Cuthdell's pants, which were be-pissed.

Toward his squire he did run.
To the surprise of every-one.
Before he fled away in shame,
Dishonored, back to whence he came,
He stopped, and croaked a single name:

"Chastity!" he wept and bawled.
The Lady, hearing this, appalled
Drew up her skirts and turned away.
Yet those close to her heard her say,
"He's sweet, in a young puppy's way."

To his side she swiftly went—
Upon her heart he'd made a dent.
She daubed his brow, and snuck a peek
At his fair face; she kiss'd his cheek.
Thus did Fortune gift the meek.

—The Raven