Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a great big black lion and a gigantic old mouse,
And a flaxen-aged dog with a rusted-red wagon,
And a verifiably undeniably, ginormous pet dragon.

Now the name of the lion sable was whatever it wanted,
And the oversized mouse her names all assorted.
And the humungous hound named tough as the teaks,
But the fearful huge dragon was named for his freaks.

Freaks the dragon had a most gummy mouth,
His spikes had quite wilted and scales drooped down south.
Mouth all asmoulder, with ashen dust snout,
Almost assuredly factually had quite terrible gout.

Belinda was as brave as she was long in years,
And all of her pets had no qualms and no fears.
Teak was a tough as a Triton midst storm,
But freaks's girth had expanded most unsightly in form.

Belinda began the tickling once more,
For centuries hence they kept mocking him, all!
Still they lay giggling, in rickety red wagon,
At the confirmedly, certainly, neurotic old dragon.

Belinda guffawed till her sides they did shake,
The hips of the mouse did quiver and a-quake.
Age not the question as much as the weight,
Of canine and cat of their lizardly mate.

Surprising them all with a thunderous sound,
Teak did whimper and put his head to the ground.
Paws over eyes the mouse did place quick,
Alas for Belinda the window did not stick.

For along came the pirate, once more again,
The lesson for he learned did not once a-wane.
His pegs swapped with cutlass and sabres,
To teach a lesson to his forgetful old neighbours.

Turned to the dragon once more they so did,
After these years hoping he'd once more rid.
But the dragon did remember his name of old,
And so this Custard would not taste quite as so bold.

The freebooter made his way so brazen,
To the lady of the house most frazen.
Put his lips to her ear and whispered her end:
"Bad behaviour by one act does not mend"

So he cut up and diced up the whole family set,
Dragon and pirate quite peacefully met.
To enjoy a supper oft served quite cold,
Of this modified tale now twice told.

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to (roughly) over 553 years (which seems like an arbitrary number but trust me) of poetry of varying quality, taste and authors of every stripe and state. Thank you for the many words worth wrangling and reading in reverie.

Finchy

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Aeguary, in the year 795 AF.