by Julia Griffin

A long way after Tennyson

My discontent is off the scale,
As even I’m aware;
I doubt I’d see the Holy Grail,
And less I could not care.

I cannot sleep, I hate to work—
A feeling, I might add,
That might have wiped the righteous smirk
Off good Sir Galahad.

Without a charger (sad to state),
I’m stranded, once again,
With essays bound to aggravate
Far worse than Agravaine,

So brandishing my good red pen,
I slash and underscore!
I’m stroppy as a dampened hen,
Because my arm is sore.