Sot Camelot lot blot mead, not beer--
Till came lot o' Normans, no Rhône.
There's Arthur, hotshot, bended to the earth
To tug a caught sword from stone.
Perched on the earth. It had thwarted men,
For naught sought to extract wrought thing.
Just churls, pretenders, and regal fakes,
Fraud-fraught; 'twas clear they're not king.

But then cloven was the stone by the one,
The authentic king in that world.
And he got all the other gents' goat--
Around, smoke, Merlin-wrought, swirled.
Merlin-taught, Art said, "Bow down each thane."
Raw, regnant indignant rap stings.
So all this canceled lot then kowtowed
And bought into him as king.

One very well hung on his steed rode--
The queen's ePONYmous hero--
To her, post-lay of Morgan Le Fay,
To be upon-her-moss beau.
Hot, she said, "Pot, not; give a reign shower!"
Nix tinkles from spritz-stingy king.
So Lance a lot on her tw*t bestowed. . .
Curled Merlin-wrought merkin-wring.

Fought, shot, the king went to Avalon,
Caught there by the reaper, we're told.
Fast-forward many hundreds of years,
You'll find Avalons are sold
At the Camry lot; one you can own. . .
A sales extravaganza--bring
Stashed cash and extracted stones along.
One bought, of the road you're king.