Days are lonely, knights are cold

Though Sir John was a chivalrous charmer,
His life, thought his wife, was all drama:
All banquets and battles,
And squeaking and rattles,
And clanking about in his armour.

Though he swore he’d let no villain harm her,
His wife, more prosaic and calmer,
Wished, just to herself,
She’d been left on the shelf,
Or gone off and just married a farmer.