Wicked Morgan Le Faye persists with her aim
To oust Guinevere, her rival of fame.
She shouts, “I, Morgana, will rule Camelot!
My life will be perfect when I wed Lancelot!!”
For toothless and twitchy, this vacuous crone
Would steal the King’s treasure and usurp his throne.
By flagons and dragons, this shriveled old maid
Is lured by the glint of Excalibur’s blade!
She sits by the mirror and blissfully preens,
“I’m fairer by far than that featherbrained Queen!”
Preparing a potion, this venomous witch whispers,
“Farewell, sweet Gwen, soon I’ll be filthy rich!”
Then ceased by a fit of malevolent cackles
To rival a herd of maniacal jackals,
She poisons the apple so shiny and red
That she’ll place in a basket by Guinevere’s bed.
But Merlin appears in a flash of white light.
He points at the biddy. She cringes in fright.
“Madam, hand me that fruit or you’ll cop a real beaut!
You won’t look too cute as a freckle-faced newt!!”
With a roll of his eyes Arthur says, “Sis, get real,
Despite what you think, you’ve no sex appeal.
Stop stirring your cauldron, quit casting your spell!
Sir Lance doesn’t like you. Your warts look like hell!”
Unloved and unwanted, she withers to dust
That whirls, twists and swirls, then swiftly combusts.
The wind’s wintry breath soon whisks the floor clean,
But her laughter still lingers. It’s loathsome, obscene.
And so, for the moment, Le Faye’s kept at bay,
But the harpy will rise in her sad disarray
For the hag has her eye on the brave Galahad.
Yes, a noble Grail-seeker would make a great Dad!
