• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 03


He's fallen tapsalteerie, heels over head.
Maybe that helmet will protect his daft old brains.
It's hard to see what's happened to the steed,
back legs still planted sturdy-like
but he's a goner, taken the forked lance
in the breastplate—done for.

He was aye getting into fights
strapping on his virtual armour
twirling his mesmerising ankle spurs
grabbing his lance on the way to the supermarket.
Is it any wonder he sometimes came a cropper?
At least when he'd had a drink, he fell soft.

But this year he decided to go noble—
noble causes, noble gear, ignoble upset.
Never been on the back of a nag before,
said my nags had driven him to it.
You would have nagged him too
great fool that he was.

But you know what they say about nothing gained
and at least he had a venturing way about him.