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Poem

It was a dark and stormy knight
who entered the castle unbidden.
Questing to rescue the purloined grail
in the dungeon's depths still hidden.
He met no resistance, no guard or dragoon,
his way clearly lighted by blinding full moon.
His trail of tan breadcrumbs was quickly dispatched
by hordes of blind rodents, their tails unattached.
Creeping slowly in search of the missing chalice,
his intent was to cause no mayhem or malice.
A creak of a step in the bowels of the bastion
gave pause to the steps of good knight Sebastian.
At dank passage’s ending a bright light shone
on the golden vessel being held by a crone.
Her gap-toothed smile and greenish exterior
made the quester’s heart feel ultra-inferior.
Witchy cackles grated, “This sacred grail is mine,
I dare you to take it if you have any spine.”
Gathering his wits, which had fallen to the floor,
Seb brandished his sword with a howl and a roar.
“Hand it over or experience your own Last Supper,”
he growled as he lunged out and full-force struck her.
The wizened crone dodged the sharp oncoming blade,
in a sinister move with Seb muttering, “Well played.”
In a flash, the witch turned the knight into stone,
then calmly drank tea from the grail with a scone.
A lightning strike plunged the night into dark,
the castle dissolved in swirly mist and a spark.
Echoing throughout the eerie blackness of night,
the crone gleefully croaked, “Good night, not-so-good knight.”

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