En garde for the fourth Musketeer

This is a tale of days of yore, Of the musketeers four Who rode the land o’er dale

and tor

Chastising those who broke

the law.

Number one drank

wine galore,

Number two loved ladies more, He wore clothes of

crushed velour

And number three just kept

his score.

A man for song, was

number four.

One icy day, while out

on t’moor,

Early spring, the day was raw, All four were frozen to

the core.

They found a tavern, so to thaw Inside there lurked a man

who wore

A suit of armour ’twas, and

it bore

A crest — a bloodied

eagle’s claw (And yes the suit did make

him sore

In places that we won’t

explore).

With this black knight,

number four

He picked a fight, and with a

roar

He rashly charged in

just before Too late — he realised —

fatal flaw!

‘My swordsmanship is

really poor.’

As swords clashed he cursed

and swore

Though very soon he was

no more.

He ended up all blood and gore That knight he really wiped

the floor

With musketeer number four. Said number one: ‘Oh,

crashing bore,

We really, really must deplore The fact that we cannot restore Life to our good mate

number four.

What might t’knight do for

an encore?’

So all three rushed the

exit door.

And now my friends you

plainly see

That is why ’twere only three Musketeers.

Ray kitchen, leeds.