With loves great strength I pulled a sword from stone
And then, so armed, lay siege upon your heart;
There to your grace my fealty was sworn
Where only death might cleave that troth apart;
Amused you were that I—a self-dubbed knight—
With blade-honed words might vie to be your king;
Mere yesterday I was a craven wight
Strained hand on quill, a timid underling.
Still none could say that sword was not fair won,
And none could claim my calling was not true;
For clear in granite, there engraved upon,
That chiseled proclamation all might view.
With sword in hand I knelt upon a knee—
On your consent, there twice a king to be.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.