My homage to the world of work

On second thoughts, let's not go to the world of work. It is a silly place.

(Apologies to Sarah Salih, King Arthur and his Knights, the Pearl poet, and anyone else who has ever attempted to teach me to know better.)

***

‘Twas the feast of the court,
amid maidens fair,
the Green Knight set foot,
to th'assembleds’ despair.

His eyes were most wroth,
a blazing hell-feu,
his comely face glowed
as vernal foliage in verdant hue.

His horse of same shade,
in gold bridle reared,
failed hoofs so dark,
twitched holly-leaf ears.

“Lo,” cried he, “Lo and behold,
I come with a game,
one new to this land,
t’offend the masters and distress the dames.

“Cut off my head, knights,
sever this voice,
from the throat whence it speaks,
you have nary a choice.”

Silence claimed all,
conquered each to a man,
‘til King Arthur stepped forth
to defend folk and land.

“I bequeath you this axe,”
quoth that knight,
“as wild as myself,
to deliver that strike,

“End this court’s plight
‘fore I take what I claim.”
The valiant king raised the leaf-blade,
defying the shame

Of a cowards’ court,
of being in a troupe
of curs and of apes,
who cower from a loup.

Yet ‘fore this great
em’rald blade took its flesh,
the king’s hand was stayed
by a knight so fresh.

He too was brave,
let no mortal contest
the valour of this man,
who wished to prove best.

“No, noble sire,” said the young chit,
“assay your gentle arm,
bloody yourself not with such deeds,
lest it bring sweet Albion to harm.”

Stepped forth this sprightly one,
radiant as the steel
of the axe he just halted,
he, that trembling aspen tree.

A sapling of a knight,
unproved there he stood,
none would grant him mercy,
offer their life as he would.

“Beau challenger,” cried the beast,
 wild green knight elegante,
“you take up my game?
You put yourself forth, I am pleased, enchanté!

“You must cut off my head,
strike visage from home,
sever mind from matter,
slice tendon from bone.”

Black was the mood
on that feast day so dour,
once so blossoming,
now curdled and sour.

The young one hefted that blade
so unseasonably bright,
over his head, over his head,
and beheld the sight

As that monster stood up
from its knees and retrieved
its head from the flagstones,
this none could believe.

“Good knight,” roared that devil,
spilling blood on the floor,
incarnadine words so drenched
dripped terrible from that maw,

“You answer my call,
now to progress on this path,
send CV and cov’ring letter
to my client who waits home by his hearth.”

With that the devil left,
spake nary a word
more of this quest,
other than that what was heard.

So our young hero
followed these commands,
took out his red pentacl’d tablet
of chastity, faith, and broadband.

Dear Sir, so he wrote, 
I am so nam’d Gawain, 
junior of the round table 
you so nearly gained.

I slay monsters and save damsels, 
I speak English and French, 
I give and take feedback 
regarding each passing wench.

I have served my king Arthur
 some years, loyal and mighty, 
yet this eve made me doubtful, 
made my constance more flighty.

List to me sir, 
I answer your call, 
I wish to guard ramparts 
of your client’s wall.

Doubt not my steadfastness, 
my aptitude in battle, 
many ghosts will attest, 
as reference, death rattles.

I merely wish to expand 
my estate, renown and power,
which I cannot do here 
under Lancelot’s glower.

I cannot be promoted to Senior Knight 
with that nepotised lake-lad 
in the throne’s line of sight, 
so to be client's SK would make me most glad.

I am no fée’s son, 
may it please you to note, 
my strength will remain 
in iron armour and rowan boat.

I sign you this letter 
in messenger’s blood, 
from its pool on the floor, 
viridi-crimson flood.

Gawain (Sir) 
Round Table Chair, 
Arthur’s Court, 
Albion Most Fair.

My education is noble 
fret not on that front, 
I fence, dance and flourish, 
speak in verses not grunts.

Experience I am plein, 
yet am thirsty for more. 
I would stare down a dragon, 
and for beauty wage war.

References are my King, 
Arthur the Great, 
and then furthermore
rogues and witches (late).

With Solomon’s wisdom
and his own hot lack of sense,
Sir Gawain pressed SEND
and from there went hence

To th’embroideried chamber
with soft ermine counterpane
to Fair Maiden Blancemal,
who wished to lose part her name.