A knight-errant is he,
armor only jeans and a tee,
a pen the sword he wields,
paper his crest and shield.
Whilst there be no dragons to slay,
he draws inspiration from the brae,
there are no damsels in distress,
only undying poetry to profess.
Pieces of love and ladies fair,
mayhap selkies with long red hair,
help you find what e’re you seek,
and in turn your interest pique.
Hearkens to the doves at dawn,
pays homage to ages long gone,
no more quests to set him roaming,
only moonbeams in the gloaming.
Though worldly may be his talent,
none may call him less than gallant,
for be you foe or be you friend,
a bit of prose to you he’ll lend.
