by Grant "Bob Southey" Deane.
A noble knight I saw, my Lords, a knight upon the rye;
A wondrous sight this knight he was, this knight about to die.
For a sheep with evil grin I saw, a sheep all dressed in black,
A sheep behind a grassy knoll, preparing to attack.
A beast abused, and cruelly used;
A bloody, painful death it mused.
The sheep it crawled and slithered down, and not a sound did make,
’Till at the last it let slip a bleat of murderous hate.
The knight he turned, his sword held high, ‘Alas, my fate,’ he cried:
But too late, the sheep did pounce, the noble knight he died.
Thus she spoke, a maid so fair,
A Venus to behold,
The moonlight in her raven hair,
A deity of old.
[Oh dull wit thou did not see the lesson she has wrought for thee]
She said, ‘Young Lords, ye do aspire to innocence debase,
With twisted stare and Midas curse and cynical embrace. ’
So thinkest thou, all my Lords, of the seeds thou’st sown.
Transformed they will return to thee, and vengeance will be known.