The Tale

A Prince who sought His lost Bride, caught In the toils of a witch,—woe betide her!— When riding one night Through a forest, caught sight Of a Spi in the web of a Flyder.

(As perhaps you surmise, I have tried to disguise, The names, with the best of intention: For I make it my plan, Whenever I can, To avoid any personal mention.)

Said the Prince to the Spi, “Supposing that I Should deliver you out of this hatefulness, Will you pay me in kind, And help me to find My Bride?—Can I count on your gratefulness?”

Said the Spi, “Without doubt, If you will let me out From the web of the terrible Flyder, By all means—oh, yes! You shall find your Princess, For I will myself be your guider!”

One jerk! He was free, And his buzzing and glee Drove the Prince to the verge of distraction. The Flyder, meanwhile, Wore a cynical smile, And a look of—well—not satisfaction.

The Prince paid no heed, But mounted his steed, And started the Princess to find. The Spi led the way, But little dreamed they That the Flyder had mounted behind!

He found her, it’s true, And the wicked witch, too, Who fled when he up and defied her; But while being wed, Hanging over her head, The Princess caught sight of the Flyder!

At the terrible sight, Her reason took flight, Till she was completely bereft of it, When she drained a tureen Full of cold Paris green, And the Prince swallowed all that was left of it!

Listening to the Spider, I Quite forgot poor Mr. Fly And his pitiable plight Till the tale was finished quite, Then, alas! too late I knew, Mr. Fly was finished, too.