I am as reasonable as the next tyrant.
The serfs who work my land want for naught.
My confessor, the Archbishop, thinks me pious
And I have been ennobled by Canute, for whom I fought.
Why then doth my Lady cause me pain?
Is she possessed by devils, is she mad?
On the first of May upon the village green
To writhe around the maypole scantily clad?
Full beautiful was she when first we met,
The wild-eyed faery’s child from Camelot.
Now fully grown, throughout Mercia known
As La Belle Dame Sans Culotte.
Her prurient self-display knows no bounds.
I am derided, have become a laughing stock
And vow that before this day is o’er
Godiva’s head will be upon the block.
Through the town’s busy marketplace she rides
Astride a mighty stallion, naked and proud,
Her golden tresses shorn for the occasion,
Smiling and waving to the crowd.
* * *
My guards surrounded her, but in vain.
The steed galloped free, she clinging to its mane.
All the way to Camelot gave they chase
Where, into an elfin grot, she vanished without trace.
That untamed spirit, full sensuous her body,
She hath me in thrall, I dream of her daily.
As haggard, bereft and woebegone,
Alone in Coventry, I loiter palely.