There once lived, in the forest green
a tribe whose attitude was mean.
They killed and maimed and robbed the men
who wandered by in groups of ten.
Word had spread quickly in the land
and to the King came the demand
that something needed to be done.
The King himself went down to see
and when he got there had to pee.
Behind a tree he hid his jewel
watched by the natives who were cruel
and out to shoot each poisoned arrow
into the flesh of Royal marrow.
The story needs to be aborted
the poet had to be escorted
away from this, a timid site
he'll sit in penance, overnight
until his senses do come back
if failing that he needs to pack
and tell his story to the Vicar
and leave us here to stir and bicker.