A hound being knighted,
It is absurd to think,
Of a mutt being a saint,
So be prepared,
To be surprised,
For here is such a tale...
In a small little Gaulish town,
There lived a hedge knight,
Whose only companion was a dog,
Named after the moonlight.
Lune was a clever mutt,
He often foraged for bundles of wood,
To feed the fire.
He would forever be dragging by hilt,
His masters sword.
He was always found sat guarding by night,
The town where he lived.
The town called him moon,
For he acted like the celestial,
Guiding them and illuminating dangers.
So loved, was he,
That the town,
And the noble who ruled,
Lay steel on his scruff,
And knighted him sir...
The faithful hound took his position seriously.
So much so,
That when all the townspeople had gathered,
For the beer and wine festival of the north,
Whilst the snow blew hard,
And the winds froze bones harshly,
Sir Lune sat outside on guard.
The children begged him to come and play,
But he stood still.
The women begged him to come and dance,
But he stayed put.
The men begged him to come and drink,
But he remained there.
And thank the gods that he did.
None of them heard the snapping of the wolves,
As the pack charged down through the darkly woods.
They had come for the infants asleep in their cots,
They had come for the cattle lowing in the field.
Fought them off,
Bit their backs,
Punched their wet noses,
And scared them off,
Keeping the town safe.
But he was injured,
Marks on his body that bled out in the soft snow.
When the crowds left the celebration,
They sobered quickly,
To see their beloved Lune,
They buried him in a special plot,
And planted a Yew tree to mark his grave.
And as time passed,
The locals raised him higher than a sir,
They christened him a saint,
Deified for his most selfless deed,
And all the young of the town were told,
During stories and at bed,
That if looking in the face of the moon,
Can be seen,
Watching over us all.