The Felt-Tipped Pen

And what, noble warrior, befell him then?
Nay, Princess, ’tis too tall a tale for the telling;
Bright day will in wonder to night turn, town into glen
The trees of legend shall stand ripe for the felling!

But what, noble warrior, befell him then?
My lady, equipped, provisioned, armed to the lip
Across the burning plain we sought him, five hundred men
And slew him, wresting back your blue pen with felt at the tip.

And what, noble warrior, befell him then?
He lay dead, Princess, as all traitors should
Though they say he went straight up to Heaven
Lay abed minus his head, for all like a piece of wood!

But what, noble warrior, befell him then?
He strolled up to Heaven’s Gate, his head in his hand
Slipped them a note, a coin, a nugget from his old den
They grinned and let him in, into Never-Neverland!

[First published by Treehouse Arts]