The Ballad of the Marvelous Pig

In days of yore when knights were a bore,
Sir Cuthbert saddled his horse
For a bit of a ride about meadow and moor,
Seeking adventure, of course.

Not long in his quest, to a village he rode
And his wondering eyes did see
Wallowing round a poor peasant's abode
A pig with legs of but three.

"Ahoy, stalwart lads, for an answer I beg,"
He called to some peasants nearby.
"I see that yon pig doth be missing a leg
And I seek to inquire why."

"When Attila the Hun once our village beset,"
One peasant began to relate,
"Our pig did Attila's great steed upset
And our village was saved from fate."

"Ah, the Tale of Attila the Hun looms big,"
Sir Cuthbert did recall.
"But is that the event that so lamed your poor pig?
I prithee, tell me all."

Then the next peasant told of the Viking raids,
How their little pig entered the fight.
Midst the clashing and clamor of flashing blades
He put the Vikings to flight.

"A wondrous tale and I'm certain tis true,
For our historians duly relate.
But is this the event, oh tell me, please do,
That accorded your poor pig its fate?"

Then the third peasant began his tale to tell
Of the Visigoths' conquering might.
"Our marvelous pig gave the Visigoths hell
And they retreated that very night."

By now Sir Cuthbert was beginning to wear
Of this storytelling game.
He once again asked, in near despair,
"So how did your pig become lame?"

At last, to Sir Cuthbert's great delight
Came the answer most sublime.
"Such a marvelous pig, it would hardly be right
To eat him all at one time!"