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For Dinah Blake whose emails closed with “Gotta Slay the Dragon”
Sweet Saint Georgette, resheathe thy sword,
Do not the klutzy dragon slay.
In truth he’s but a scaly pup,
Who doesn’t know his number’s up;
When done with him, he’ll fade away
Instead research for centuries hence,
Some basic facts about his kind:
Of how his tiny, fluttering wings
Can lift aloft such serpent bulk.
Does he require a running start?
Or does he dart and downward dive
From cliffside aerie in sudden, silent
Swoop on valley victims unawary?
And of his breath, his nostrils’ fiery snort?
Ascertain if gargling ponds of Scope
And grinding Tic-Tacs by the gross
Might cool his forked, lizard tongue
And fuel his hope of kissing your red lips
Once his mouthy steam’s released
And all the throaty hissing’s ceased.
His sloppy spit, an acid drip, dissolving
Your chain mail away? His talons bloody
From some recent beasty feast? Or Tofu
‘Neath his nails? Arugula between his teeth?
We’ll need to know if meat he’d eat
Or if some grasses sweet four stomachs redigest
To feed his monstrous appetite. Are virgins,
Maids, unsullied girls his sole delight?
Get him to talk; he just might tell
How on some sultry, summer night
He wandered, quite by error, into the quilters’ circle
Where through wordy intercourse he scooped
All the towns’ medieval poop: which prince
Dallied here and there; which maid betrayed
Her knight; and how they’d fight the dragon.
And oh, so much will you discern
By staring on those lightning eyes!
What snaky secrets come to learn,
Grow so wise of his mystery--know why
Where fears ruled, “There dragons be!”
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