By Colin Doberstein
A figure in white armor faces me
With golden trim and flowing auburn hair.
She doffs her helm so she can plainly see
The lad (in height her equal) standing there.
Against her pallid skin her eyes burn bright
Their color fit to match the ocean wet.
She holds her spear free, ready for a fight
Until she perceives that I am no threat.
And in a solemn voice, she says: “Well met.”
She seems to me, due to her warlike calm
Like Washington, a courtly fighting man.
She voted for Obama, whose new dawn
Will help the poor: her duty and her plan.
And so I say to her: “Hello there, ma’am.
Your choice of garments makes your knighthood clear.
Though I wish not your valiant heart to slam.
It seems that of you I should have no fear.
For as you walk, I see you shed a tear.”
“’Tis true” she sniffs with upper lip held firm.
“My love I search for but have yet to find.
And so, if Arthegall you do discern,
Bring him to me and give me peace of mind.”
To her I told the truth: “Your love is dead.
I killed him, his superior I am.
And so, to me your love shall soon have fled.”
She disagreed, and used her spear to ram
Straight through the parts that mark me as a man.
And so, my friends, I give you some advice:
Killing a hot knight’s lover has its price.
So if you feel the need to sate your loins
Remember well the story of my wounded groin.