My lords and my ladies please hearken to me,
I'm here to amuse you with a small story,
A tale of  great fighting, of lust and of greed,
A tale that I hope will fulfill all your need.

My story takes place in a land far away,
In a time that was many years before this day,
At a place where a great river split into two,
In a time when great deeds were expected of you.

On each bank of that river a barony lay,
As far as I know they are still there today,
And in the vee formed by the two lessor streams,
There was a small shire, a place fit for dreams.

In the midst of that river lay the isle called Wright,
Each barony claimed it was their land by right,
Despite of the fact it was closest by far,
To the southernmost point of that small shire's shore.

Now the king of that land was a man noted for,
His prowess with weapons and the arts of war,
But he wanted no quarrels within his desmeins,
And suggested a tourney to settle the claims.

The shire prosted that this was not right,
For in their small land they had only one knight,
While each of the baronies had least a score,
And given the chance they could hire still more.

The king thought it over a night and a day,
A champion's tourney is the only way,
Each side will provide only one belted knight,
And their personal squires to round out the fight.

On the eve of the tourney the forces made camp,
Squires set to their duties ere it got too damp,
To pitch all the tents and provide all the feeds,
To polish the armor and care for the steeds.

In the camp of the barony I shall call one,
In no time at all, all the work it was done,
For by strange coincidence the night before,
Their knight had made squires of some twenty-four.

In the camp of the barony I shall call two,
The work was completed quite quickly it's true,
For the night before, by some quirk of fate,
Red belts were given to some thirty-eight.

But things were diff'rent in the camp of the shire,
For that village's champion had but one squire,
And the knight soon went off for to join with his friends,
In an evening of drinks, fights, and makin' amends.

But the squire just tied a long rope to a tree,
And threw the end over a branch to hang free,
From a loop on the end of the rope hung a pot,
Let it swing ore the fire until it got hot.

By the time that the stew in the pot was ready,
The armor was polished, the tents were steady,
The horses were waterted, the camp it looked fine,
In fact he bettered barony one's best time.

But the morn of the tourney things really looked grimm,
The odds for that shire were really quite slim,
With two against thirty-nine and twenty-five,
They'd be lucky to walk off that field still alive.

But they slashed or they hacked or they blocked or they ducked,
With skill, rightousness, experience and luck,
When the dust it had settled on that tourney field,
T'were the only two standing they never did yield.

The king gave that squire his spurs the same night,
The shire got claim to that isle called Wright,
The folk of the shire were filled with relief,
With joyousness, praise and with some disbelief.

But of course this would not surprise any of you,
For today we know that it ALWAYS is true,
That the squire of the high pot noose is equal to,
The sum of the squires of sides one and two!


Sorry about that (no I'm not). The tune, should you wish to sing it, is "Sweet Betsy from Pike"