John The Brave

by Nicholas Robinson

There was in olden times a road
That led through vale and glen
T'was marred and cracked by battle scars
And feared by mortal men.

But on it one day rode a steed
Whose rider, dark and tall
Feared naught but Heaven's fiery wrath
And that not much at all.

He rode upon a dangerous quest;
And all around the land
His name was known as John the Brave
For he only had one hand.

T'was said it had been lost long since
In battle with his brother
And in this fight his kin had cut
The fingers from his other.

But one good leg had John the Brave,
And being strong of mind
T'was less than an annoyance that
Sir John was also blind.

And though he could not speak or hear,
And could not move his head
It mattered not to John the Brave
That some men thought him dead.

And though his steed was made of wood
And could not move an inch
It mattered not to good old John
It mattered not one pinch.

So on his wondrous beast he sat,
Croaking wordless wit
While village children ran around
And pelted him with shit.