Champion of shrugs, defender
of the couch faith,
bides his time unbidden,
bodes well emboldened,
rests his pointed metal feet and yawns
like the hinges of his suit
and waits to evade the next crusade.

His helmet has a double chin
built in just in case
he is invited to too many hog feasts,
not that this is very likely
because he does not love his friends.
Other things he cares nothing for
include jousts, sieges and enormous horses.

The Knight of Whatever
can no longer be bothered with this poem
so he refuses to rhyme or scan
and forces it to change direction.
There is an astrolabe over there,
small troubadours mean big trouble,
Jerusalem is nice at this time of year.