I was the king of always summer
who named himself Pendragon
wielding a railing from the fence
that I proclaimed to be Excalibur.
My friend likewise broke a branch
of sycamore, stripping it of twigs
to form a gnarled wand of wisdom
and stood beside me as my Merlin.
We wandered tenements and towers
of our concrete Camelot, on a quest
to vanquish vandals from a playground
etched with runes and evil script.
We were joined by a berserker
on a steed valiant but invisible
caparisoned as a knight, with a bamboo pole
after which I dubbed him my Lance
Then we met fair Gwenny
who in secret showed her knickers
inflaming a jealous rivalry
between her king and hothead champion.
We squared up for a tournament
that was soon bereft of honour
as the verbal clash of sound effects
moved from lips to wood on flesh
I administered the coup de grace;
a brusing rap across the knuckles
that brough a tear to Lance's eye
as he galloped home, he said for dinner.
Gwenny accused me of being smelly
and of being ignorant for not knowing
that Excalibur was not the sword of kingship
as it came from a lake, not from stone.
Merlin shared a draught of Cola
from a sticky grail of plastic
which tasted sweet as summer
and as flat as my mean realm.
