Avoiding clearings open wide,
Exposed to sight, poor place to hide,
He walks on toes of air.
Without a sound, the King escapes,
Behind the trees, whose mossy capes,
Disguise their Master fair.
Around he stalks a circle path,
Then spies his foe and halts his tracks,
A man lurks in the briars.
Attacker brash is now the prey,
Invader dressed in colors gay,
What foolish, vain attire!
He smirks, the King, and bites his tongue,
Perhaps this jest was all in fun?
For what sane man would wear,
A crown of weeds and holly reds,
A necklace tied of grassy threads,
And daisies in his hair?
His jerkin died the brightest green,
His tunic stained of blood, it seems,
To be so scarlet bold.
And cushioned feet, with mossy soles,
Revealing dainty, pinkish toes,
No more than five years old.
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