A Ceorl

A ceorl,

Whose job was to unfurl

The red carpet for the king,

Once did a very unusual thing.

In a fanciful flight,

He plunged himself to plight,

And exchanged the regal carpet, well strung

For one made entirely of dried dung.

The crowd gasped

As the king set foot, expecting a rasp,

As he realised he was stepping on poo,

But he paused and calmly asked for our fool.

He stepped on forward,

His head bent at the king, toward,

Ready for a slap or his sword,

Buried deep through his gourd.

Instead his liege,

Anointed on him prestige,

Elevated him to the royal entourage,

Something some strangely named espionage.

You see, this ceorl was a lucky bugger,

For this he could have seen a dagger

Come and extricate him like a tumour:

Fortunately the king had a sick sense of humour.