While poor Cardi slept the sleep of innocence
couched in solitary splendour dreaming of pastoral
scenes, dancing nymphs and shepherdesses.
Dastardly plots were afoot,
wimmin, subtle, false and treacherous,
whisper in the night. Abductions planned, images
passed – wild talk of money to be made from
the body of the good Sir Cardilot, the last of all
the knights. Sold to infidel wimmin in far off lands
senses dulled by sweet perfumes, resistance quelled
by silken bonds, suffering, as they practice their feminine
arts upon their prisoner, learning to please their lord.
Be still my heart - methinks I do protest too much, this wench of York
and devious Derl may have a plan after all.