“Oh, this is really quite dull,” declared the bored Queen.
“Just bash in his skull. I don’t want him seen.”
With a start and a hop, the nearest poor fop
Ran straight for the fellow wearing trousers of yellow,
And, right in his ear, thus screamed:
“Her Majesty orders your face to be reamed!”
“Injustice, I say!” yelled the prey of foul play,
As he tripped o’er a crypt and fell down said dark pit.
Yet, he still was alive, for throughout the long dive,
His good roughened hands found him some stray strands
Of thick, braided vine – a fortuitous find.
“Isn’t he dead by now? For he will be, I vow.”
Drawled her Cruel Highness, still dressed in her finest.
“Unless, I digress, it’d be the Press he’d assess…
Hmm. On second thought,” she said, extremely distraught.
“Retrieve him with zeal; I want him to kneel.
Oh yes, that is right – no, dear man, it’s foolish to fight.
You just stay there, and I hope you’re aware
That you’ve been saved by pure chance,
but as a boon for a loon, you are now dubbed…Sir Pants!”