157. suffer the eve, alphabetically (cont.)

the whippet is wise, but knows that this time
he’s gone a bit far with these glove designs — 
if truth should be told (and he wasn’t willing),
the glove was a glove, and he hadn’t killed it

the black knight’s a boast, a stupid, sly dolt,
but he’d had to have an anecdote,
that’s the whole game that round tables play,
then they all sing each other’s praises

the whippet has winged, if unknowingly,
a breakdown of things, as they had been,
politically speaking, he’d shifted the swing,
from what you make up, to what you can bring

melchior’s waiting, peabody’s bracing
for whatever whippet would add to the table,
so, he just spouted, blurted, avowed:
the offending, exiled, outrageous towel!

towels are toothy, dangerous, doomy,
distance removed from glove’s simple suiting,
when you’ve en-runned a towel to ground,
watch for your water, it will lash out

manys of gods, gooses, and lizards,
have set in the steps of towel-y treasures,
few have returned, if ever have any,
and some have suggested, it’s only a legend

the whippet is willing to bet all his beef,
the towel of myth, there is no such thing,
but he took his trousers, his tool-belt, his spade,
and made for the nearest communal bathes

the round table rips, it’s getting in it,
all of them caught the towel trek spirit — 
archimedes, elf, morgan the face,
made like the blazes where washing takes place

big nose the bastard, triceratops, blaster,
little lord lastly, lancelot’s brother — 
all of the knights, spread far and wide,
in search of a fabulous towel to chide

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