[Setting: Paris, 4^th Arrondissement. Redundantly similar to 804 MAIN.]

[Enter Queen, Fool, Sir Brian]

Methinks we ought convene our former Band

From their divers Encampments in this Land.

But I've not any Fancy where to start

Without a Knowledge of our Author's Art.

[Enter Sirs Josef and Obadiah,

Such base Coincidence we shant permit!

Were Author here he'd have a Cause for it.

But sith he hath passed on, our Work is full

Of Turns inconstant and implausible.

O! Hail and well met, Sirs and good my Queen!

Hast thou descried the whereabouts of Jean?

We have besought her sith we all did split

She disappear'd after my Ship alit.

Alas, she died in just a Fortnight's Time.

Corrupting French Boys was her only Crime.

She resteth now inside the House of God.

Her burning Stench did rival that of Todd!

Now only Lady Sherri's left unfound...

Methinks she'll show up if we wait around.

[Time passes]

A Month hath passed and still no Sign of her...

Methinks that I espy some soft grey fur!

The Swuck's been ripped apart by Frankish Hordes!

Mehopes the path of Fuzz may lead towards...

[Enter Lady Sherri]

I am no more surprised to find you here.

Hast thou been in that Pond for o'er a year?

'Tis not just Pond, but Fountain; behind you

Is the eccentric Fort of Pompidou.

Thou hast th'entire Time been in a Part

Of odd, arcane, kinetic Modern Art.

Methinks I graspeth not thine white Man's Ways.

Methinks our Lady's lost in magic Haze.

Methinks the chilly Water caused a Flu?

Perchance it's just a Hint of th'ole Ague.

I'm getting slumberous, dizzy, cold, and weak.

Methinks before we end the Fool must speak.

Tradition gets a Nod before we end?

A strange Conclusion to this, good my Friend.

We ver'ly hope, thou, Reader, didst enjoy

And find our poem worthy of King Hoy.

And tho' our Ending's rather premature,

Thou missest but more Pedantry and Gore.

There is a Box outside for thy Complaints,

But we must close ere Lady Sherri faints.

Thou mayst have noticed, in our Tale of Grail,

An Oversight; but 'tis not we who fail...

Shouldst thou not writest thy Work about Gaul?

Forsooth, what is a Work "about" at all?

Aye, thou wilst find no Meanings within here;

The Meaning dwells within the Reader's Ear.

[Exeunt all]