Maharaja Blues

In lands where laurels bloom for brains, Where knights seek truth, not golden chains, There rode a lord of orange hue, Whose praise for self outshone the dew. His helm was vast, his greaves immense, His cuirass forged at great expense. “Behold!” he cried, “my armoured grace! The world shall weep before my face!” He posed, he preened, he puffed his chest, Declared his joust would beat the rest. He mocked the meek, he scorned the wise, And eyed the most Nobel of prize. But lo! The day of tourney came, He clanked toward his fleeting fame. His steed, once proud, now bowed in dread “Too much,” it neighed, “this orange head!” The saddle slipped, the girth gave way, The horse took flight in wild dismay. Sir Tangerine, a bouncing gourd, Was dragged like laundry by his sword. Through mud and moat, through hedge and thorn, He flailed like laundry freshly shorn. His helm spun thrice, his plume went flat, He lost his grip and then his hat. At last he stopped, a dented wreck, With frogs and daisies...