Classic Poem

Skelton Laureate, Defender, against Master Garnesche, Challenger

Sith ye have me challenged, Master Garnesche,
Rudely reviling me in the king's noble hall,
Such another challenger could no man wish,
But if it were Sir Termagant that tourneyed without nall;
For Sir Frollo de Franko was never half so tall.
But say me now, Sir Satrapas, what authority ye have
In your challenge, Sir Chesten, to call me a knave?

What, have ye kithed you a knight, Sir Douglas the Doughty,
So currishly to beknave me in the king's palace?
Ye strong sturdy stallion, so stern and stouty,
Ye bear ye bold as Barabas, or Sir Terry of Thrace;
Ye girn grimly with your gumm─ùs and with your grisly face!
But say me yet, Sir Satrapas, what authority ye have
In your challenge, Sir Chesten, to call me a knave?

Ye foul, fierce and fell, as Sir Ferumbras the freke,
Sir captain of Catywade, catacumbas of Cayre,
Though ye be lusty as Sir Libius lances to break,
Yet your countenance uncomely, your face is not fair:
For all your proud pranking, your pride may impair.
But say me yet, Sir Satrapas, what authority ye have
In your challenge, Sir Chesten, to call me a knave?

Of Mantrible the Bridge, Malchus the Murrion,
Nor black Balthasar with his basnet rough as a bear,
Nor Lycaon, that loathly lusk, in mine opinion,
Nor no boar so brimly bristled is with hair,
As ye are bristled on the back for all your gay gear.
But say me yet, Sir Satrapas, what authority ye have
In your challenge, Sir Chesten, to call me a knave?

Your wind-shaken shanks, your long loathly legs,
Crooked as a camock, and as a cow calfless,
Brings you out of favour with all female tegs:
That Mistress Punt put you off, it was not all causeless;
At Orwell her haven your anger was lawless.
But say me yet, Sir Satrapas, what authority ye have
In your challenge, Sir Chesten, to call me a knave?

I say, ye solemn Saracen, all black is your ble;
As a glede glowing, your eyen glister as glass,
Rolling in your hollow head, ugly to see;
Your teeth tainted with tawny; your snivelly snout doth pass,
Hooked as an hawk─ùs beak, like Sir Topas.
Boldly bend you to battle, and busk yourself to save:
Challenge yourself for a fool, call me no more knave!