St George the Fool

The Worm of old, it's long been told has perished over time,
Through gallant deeds from men on steeds, recounted over wine.
The Dragon praised by nations plenty suffered in our land,
And now it's gone and in its place we worship killing hands?

On English soil from pain and toil we grow from stress and war,
Chesspieces moved across the board to defend our emerald shore.
Our language moved with counter blows that swallowed the invader,
From the Nords to Rome the Royal throne has been our Country's Saviour.

But on those thrones the Royals grow from deeds of other men,
And pull the noose around the brave to bring them close to them.
Dressed in steel and armed with lance, these men were known as knights,
And earned their fame for facing foes, to win our country's fights.

But the Dragon lived as master of the land, the air and sea.
Majestic beast of gem stone hue and cloaked in mystery.
With a heart like man, they knew to love and passion was their fire.
They laughed at stars, cried at seas and knew the earth's desires.

'Not master of me,' thought George from far as he wished for ranking higher.

Because small in thought and short of years, George envied this fine creature,
And wished for love from maiden sweet to get her to the preacher.
He spread a tale that paints the beast as demons spreading death,
Then set out on his brainless steed to fake his very best.

The lance went in, but rejoice was stilled by voice from dragon's chest…

'You take my life?' the Dragon said as Death's dark dimmed out the day
'When all I did was rest my bones to watch flowers dance and sway.
Why have you come from lands afar to spill my precious blood?
Why pierce my heart with tips of steel to turn my flesh to mud?'

'You are great,' said George, 'but now am I not better for defeating?
Your death is proof that I am brave and fame will not be fleeting!
A saint I'll be for stopping you from spoiling England's soil
And in my name shall be the fame of what I did through toil!'

'By hand you're great and I say it Sir, that none could kill me better,'
The Dragon coughed. The blood still spread and made the soil wetter.
'But fool men are no substitute for such creatures of my size.
With me gone, they'll sing your song with tears to fill the eyes.'

The last breath passed the Dragon's lips. The blood had ceased to spill.
George clapped his hands and walked around the thing that was his kill.
Like a fool he tripped and fell face first to land within a trance.
On level with the dragon's eyes, George saw the flowers dance.



Written in honour of those that suffered Man's arrogance and hide now from our eyes.