Come closer my child,
do mind the fire.
and I’ll tell you the tale of
Wayne, the Good Squire.
It was once, long ago,
in the kingdom of Kam,
that a cruel, recreant knight
controlled the whole land.
He had taken the kingdom
through fiery force,
And though many had died,
he showed no remorse.
He captured the castle with
hatred and slaughter.
No one remained, except the
king’s daughter.
For she was the picture of
beauty and grace.
The cruel knight fell in love
when he looked at her face.
And so there they remained,
the princess and her captor.
The kingdom was silent,
devoid of all laughter.
In a neighboring kingdom there
lived a knight.
With his armor all shined he
was a formidable sight.
He had heard of the story with a
mixture of glee,
for he needed to prove himself
to the community.
But he was young and stupid,
as most of them are.
He had not the brains,
he was only good for a spar.
So his kind, caring father
sent him off with a squire.
His name was Wayne,
and his wits were much higher.
The knight went for glory and
the love of a girl,
while the squire went for money
from the hand of an earl.
And so off they set, our
squire and knight.
They were well prepared for all
but a difficult fight.
They travelled for days without
sign of the castle,
Din the knight began to
complain, cursing such hassle.
He wanted the glory
but none of the trouble.
And while he was toiling
his anger did double.
He wanted to turn back, to
give it all up.
To go home and sleep with
ale in his cup.
But Wayne the Good Squire
convinced him to stay,
promising his fame in just one
more day.
This promise was good for on
the next night,
a castle loomed just ahead:
the cause of their plight.
The knight rode ahead,
ready for battle.
But Wayne followed slowly,
wary even of cattle.
Our Din was too loud,
too sure of himself.
He would soon be a trophy  
above the castle shelf.
The Lord of the castle,
the cruel knight named Lor,
knew he was there before
he came to the door.
His armor was on,
his sword by his side
he planned to be done with it
before he even stepped outside.
But Wayne had been watching
him prepare for the fight.
He rushed down the hill to warn
his burdensome knight.
He had concocted a plan above
either knights’ thinking.
He would switch places with
Din, faster than blinking.
He would go to the door
in place of the knight,
and when the door opened,
Din would give Lor a fight!
So Din went to hide in a bush
near the door,
while Wayne rode up proudly,
looking ready for war.
But when the doors opened,
there stood a man.
He was so large and monstrous,
Din forgot the whole plan.
He sat frozen in fear,
hidden in the bush,
not even brave enough to give
Wayne’s horse a push.
And so Wayne was left alone to
face the giant knight.
Lor looked upon him with a
laugh of delight.
But the brazen, young squire
refused to run back.
He charged without thinking,
his sword ready to attack.
Lor was astonished,
the squire caught him off guard.
The sword hit its target,
whacking Lor hard.
Dazed from the blow, the cruel
knight fell to the ground.
Wayne struck him once more,
and Lor died with no sound.
Gasping for breath after his
arduous fight,
Wayne fell out of the saddle
still dressed as a knight.
He stumbled into the castle to
make himself known,
but all he could manage was a
soft, feeble moan.
He fell to his knees and
curled into a heap.
Unable to stay awake,
he gave into sleep.
He awoke to find himself in
a soft bed,
he was so warm and content
he thought himself dead.
But then he saw a figure
slouched in a chair,
he saw it was Din, but he
could do nothing but stare.
Din saw him looking and
quickly sat straight,
his eyes were angry, his face
contorted with hate.
He accused Wayne of stealing
his glory and good name;
out from the beginning to
capture his fame.
Din got up from the chair and
moved with a knife,
and so Wayne was in yet
another struggle for life.
The fight was short-lived
for when Din stood he swayed.
And when he went to attack,
he fell onto his blade.
Wayne was astonished, it just
couldn’t be;
the knight that lay dead was the
one that started this spree.
He had planned to **** him
for fake lies and deceit.
So Wayne felt no remorse for
the man at his feet.
He left his room, in search of
the princess,
in hopes that he would return
with reward for his success.
He needn’t go far for outside of
his door,
there stood a woman whom
he couldn’t love more.
She too was taken by Wayne’s
good looks and charm.
She apologized for being
the cause of his harm.
He couldn’t hear more so he
got on his knee,
asking her to let him help
rule the country.
She accepted this offer with
happy tears.
For he was the knight that had
destroyed all her fears.
They embraced and as she
looked past his shoulder,
she received a scare from a man
that lay still as a boulder.
“My sweet who is that man that
hast scared me so?
He looks to be stabbed,
was he your foe?”
“My dear, don’t take fright of
such gruesome a sight.
That is only the once grand,
Cowardly Knight.”
Wayne and his love were
soon wed for life,
and never were their lives again
full of such strife.
And so it was that many
came to admire
and listen to the tale of Wayne,
the Good Squire.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne.
My dear solitary Wayne.
I want to write about Wayne again tonight;
with his head in my lap and a candle
by my side.
With a torn heart that has healed,
A sordid love that has recovered.
Wayne, in tonight's candlelight looking damp
and fragile,
Like the cheap autumnal winds
He has struggled to step out from.
Wayne, I can see winds in his hair;
The sea in his eyes;
Which are too thick and oceanic blue.
Wayne, with his breath in front of me,
Like a pure puff of wintry smoke,
He chants loving spells again and again.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And guess how this heart could meet with thine;
And think how my poetry should be written--
if only there was not a sign of thee here.
Thou art the very thread that I write,
A breath that inspires,
A heart that is ne'er too tired to smile.
A dream I had carried all along--before that one
sunny day.
A dream I had troubled myself to think about.
Ah, Wayne.
If only I could heal that sadness in thy eyes;
Although with a tongue of satires and lies;
Then I would do so now, with thee here,
Ah, but at a night too loud and surly,
I can but barely see thee here.
I feel thy golden hair, smooth like silk in my hand,
And thy curved cheeks which oft' smile like
a little boy.
Ah, Wayne, but why art thou with me here;
I, who is neither popular nor unpopular,
I, who is neither famous nor infamous,
I, who says and writes just like a poet does,
I, an irregular poet, with some odd, lame greasy odes.
I, the phantom this land wants not to see,
I, and my secrets that they know not about.
I, who remains futile to the whole sneering stars;
and I, who is neither blind, nor able to see.
I, who in her prayers is consumed,
By the cold flaws of the universe,
I, who oft' cannot see my own skin.
I, who has but lost the warmth of my hands,
And whose heart is ice cold, buried deep in its own
Shrieking labyrinth of deadened peace.
Ah, and I, who sometimes longs just to hear thy voice,
And dream of a night of bliss with thee.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And I, thy futile friend,
With a lost conscience I have given to thy hand,
I write only a vain poem again,
I, who has denied my own taste and grace
And dreamed of bitterness, once, and disgrace.
For perhaps thou wilt not think nor say of me;
For my beauty is not a beauty to thee;
For my beauty, to thee, exists only in sleep.
When thou saith I am beautiful,
I blush and become forgetful,
But a saying is not faithful
And words are false and not cordial.
I, a friend, sometimes hear stories of another friend;
A friend for whom thy heart serenely longs;
But a vague one, like one of summer's rejected old songs.
But what about me--and my own heart;
A scar is left there that pierces it apart;
A scar that perhaps shan't heal again;
Ah, Wayne, for thou hear me not, nor see my pain.
A secret hidden deep in my lofty lungs;
A fleshy wound I have carried all along.

And I wonder why she is not here;
While she is not me, and I am her not;
And all those of her sound so lithe and bare;
But, ah, in such silence I shan't turn to care.

And I wonder why she sees you not;
And hugs you not when it freezes to cold;
Shoulder you not behind the watery rain;
Shredding not your tears, nor your grief in pain;

But I am not her, and I am not thine;
I shrink by thee still under her rain;
And in thy charms so shall she live.
Perhaps thou shalt never know,
But I am here like I am now,
Clogged in the wrath of my beauty,
Who sometimes seeks and seeks thee not.
And I am still here like now,
Frozen in the air of my poetry,
Cold in such tears that can't lie;
Caught at the eastern wings of the sky,
Unable to move, 'till thou again pass by.