Poor farmer Johnson; I’ve stolen his scarecrow
It’s a bit of a rare blow,
Since it’s not something I can be replacing.
But he’s out of sheep,
And his gardens weeds six-feet deep.
If he’s smart, he’ll run off like Hellhounds were chasing.
I estimate it’ll take the Dragon about one-minute thirty
To realize that I’ve done him a bit of dirty.
Then he’ll head to the castle spouting fumes.
Such are the idiotic situations which Fate looms.
My Father, the King made a cunning plan:
I’d be a dead Princess, he’d be a live man.
He’ll sleep on the couch ‘til his beard eats his face.
The Queen Mother wants me sound and safe.
So I can marry and breed and grow rusty and chafe.
Have I mentioned I’m not fond of this medieval-minded place?
But I skipped my every lesson in Astronomy
To study philosophy and demonology.
My brain’s grown a muscle; my skull barely fits.
Don’t fight fire with fire when you’ve no flame—just wits.
And it seems it’s time to get tied to the rock.
There’s a host of villagers—a herd? A flock?
Convinced that my death will change their luck.
They’re picking me up with a ragged cheer.
And I think that Hobbit drank all the beer.
I can predict what’ll happen next: It’s gonna suck.
