A Bard for Our Own Time

So chivalry, they say it's long since dead;

It's not GREAT Grandpa's England anymore,

Where white knights smote the dragon's scaly head

And poets sewed his teeth in tales of yore.

Nor do pining lasses sit in towers,

Just vainly hoping as they brush their hair

That Lancelot will bring them some flowers

And cart their happy ass right out of there.

Now Guineveres have their own careers 

(Rapunzels, princesses, or whoever)

And waves of braying feminists for years

Have tossed the baby with the bathwater.

A lonely row to ho', this life of rhyme;

It's hard to be a bard for our own time.

February 4, 2018 (c) Frederick C. Ingram