Once upon a time, there lived a knight. Once he marched for kings and rode through the lands! Now war is done and no longer he stands. He is all tied up in his silly knightly papers with his silly knightly squires who never lifted a finger, much less made his armor the cleaner.

Day in and day out he toils with his silly knightly papers and silly knightly squires while the silly knight's peasantry bring him their spoils and their boils. So his mood dims and his temper grows coarse, his hair became thin and his voice grew hoarse. As their shining knight darkened, his people grew wary. Nothing is worse than a good knight gone scary.

Then one day, there came a trumpeting blast and through the gates of his castle rode a line of shining brown horses with long flowing manes. So bright were their eyes, so light on their feet, how they danced, how they played, while their riders did game!
They sang and danced while they played and the laughed, all while the good knight gone scary, looked down quite wary, and sighed with great sorrow and fear that they'd tarry.

For he had his silly knight papers and silly squires and silly peasants with spoils and boils, and he had no time for games.

But in burst the party and swept them away, dragging all down the hall. Into the banquet hall they flowed like a river, his cooks danced with glee and cooked ever the quicker.

The Knight found himself lost and confused on his chair; just how he'd got there he wasn't aware!

In the commotion and through its loud roar, soft boots scraped softly through rushes on the floor. Leaning down from behind a woman spoke softly, "great knight you must drink and make light", and she then held aloftly, a great cup made of glass and etched with fine tools, filled with red wine from grapes stomped by the king's fools. Unable to displease or be an ungracious host, he drank deep from the glass, though neglected to toast. Then the Knight he did sup and the Knight he did drink. The knight did make merry and by nightfall had bloomed like the cherries.

He swept up the woman with great delight and declared that such a gift must be his wife. No longer would he be dour and stone, but joyful and gay and never alone! And so he was glad and he never grew sad, for whenever he tired of toils and spoils and boils, he'd look out his window and see his dear wife, dancing and riding through rays of sunlight.

(Word Count: ~443)