Le Beau Chevalier sans Honour
By Beverly A. Hale
Here I sit, with
honor fled,
And some would say
t’were better dead,
Than not to pray
delivery
From
life without its ‘chivalry.’
Is honor laid on
frozen brow,
Or bloody limb, more
pure somehow
Than heart that for
sweet living longs,
And breath that
sings survival’s songs?
Must I play a
foolish game
Of death, to win
sweet honor’s fame?
My limbs are oaken,
not my head,
I have no wish to
join the dead.
Truth, I would fight
to save my skin,
My lands, my love or
just to win.
But challenge is not
called by me,
I’d opt to ever let
life be.
What use is there of
wooden lance?
The blows land
harder than a glance,
I’ve no wish to be
venerated
For all of those
I’ve ventilated.
T'is not for me to
question never,
When importuned by
maiden clever.
“Save my honor,
father, mother,
Rescue sister, maid,
my brother.”
“Fight this
giant---You may die,
But we shall praise
thee to the sky.”
To fight when
armor’d fools call “Hold?”
They’d take my head
to prove they’re bold.
Let my armor go to
rust,
My
lance decay to naught but dust.
Nay, let me live my life of shame
I’ll proudly wear
the coward’s name.
Let others serve as
food for worms,
I’ll live my life on
living’s terms.