Few now recall, save the scholar and sage,
The fame of the great Carolingian age!
What deeds were enacted by Charlemagne’s peers,
Those noble companions, renowned through the years!
’Pon valor and courage an empire was built
But yet they would brace for a pivotal tilt—
The Saracen threat fast advancing through Spain
Roused the might of the Paladins of Charlemagne.
In Roland, the most puissant knight in the land,
The invincible blade, Durandal, in his hand,
The Franks had a captain, the ideal Hesperian,
To give them a victorious campaign Iberian.

But what of his cousin, the noble Anton,
Who oft wore his helmet with ostrich plumes on?
For though he was famed not for prowess of arms,
He pleased the King’s court with his bounteous charms.
But despite the court’s favor, he dwelled on the fact
That everyone knew there was something he lacked—
The King wielded Joyeuse, Roland Durandal—
He needed a magical sword to install
His legacy ’mongst all the great knights of France,
The troubadour knight that could both sing and dance!

And on the long march through the heights of the Pyrenees
Off in the distance he thought he did hear a sneeze
And deep in his brain a suggestion arose
That where there’s a sneeze there just might be a nose
And where there’s a nose, be it north, east, or south
He could only conclude that there must be a mouth.
And where there are mouths must there be food aplenty,
And if he could spare just ten minutes or twenty,
For huevos or tacos he might briefly scan;
So he veered off the path, formulating a plan
That after he supped he should rejoin the caravan
Exhibiting fashion and style ’gainst the Saracen.

He suddenly felt an ethereal chill
As a mystical tune echoed over the hill.
With keen apprehension, he spurred on his horse
To discover the unearthly voice at its source.
Deep into the wood, he was led by his ear
Until a quite marvelous sight did appear—
Within a quaint grotto, a treasure so rare—
A vibrating sword was suspended in air.

To seize this fair prize was his instant desire—
An unequaled complement to his gold lyre!
“With your voice and mine harmonizing in chorus
Our fame shall spread far, for no man could ignore us!”
Such are the wages of fortune and folly
When one goes in search of the perfect tamale!
But just as the hilt was secure in his hand,
A sorceress appeared with a mien of command—
“Forged in its likeness and drawn from the stone,
Behold El Cantante, Excalibur’s clone!
In exchange for this sacred sword prized by the seers,
Thou art doomed to walk blind ’pon the earth for nine years!”
And ending her short proclamation in Spanish,
The witch gave a wink and proceeded to vanish.
And so the adventures of Anton commenced
And here is the tale of his labors (condensed).

Bereft of his sight, he rode forth without fear,
His new wondrous sword singing songs of good cheer.
And ere long he came to an old water well
Beside a small copse on the green of the dell.
And gathered around this bucolic oasis,
As one might expect in such far remote places,
He met some folk resting from up in the hills
And thought to avail them of some of his skills.

He opened by playing an aria in A,
His glorious falsetto on flawless display.
And then a sonata in three equal parts,
Employing sweet phrases to melt women’s hearts!
And on to the fugue, contrapuntal in style,
But never forsaking his glamorous smile!
But of his performance the bards shall ne’er tell,
For only three hermits had come to the well.

From there he marched into a deep forest glade,
But armed with his sword he was never afraid.
Winding through tree trunks, not one word he spoke
’Til he planted his face in the side of an oak.
Such a grave insult could not be ignored,
So he answered the slight with a thrust of his sword.
Convinced that each oak was a Basque or a Moor,
He mowed down the forest of Ariador.
But tales of this conquest no man shall e’er hear,
For ’twas only seen by four squirrels and two deer.

He strayed ’til he found the Ravine of Ardenne
Where no man had ventured and been seen again.
For men of that day would ride ever so far
To avoid certain death by the Worm of Navarre,
A serpentine dragon with razorback scales
Who dwelt in that hollow and haunted its trails.
And just as he entered the deepest dark wood,
He found that before him the fell creature stood.
The serpent forbade him to pass through its realm,
But the gallant Anton fixed the plumes on his helm
And answered defiance by sword and by shield,
An act by which all of his fortunes were sealed.
The beast lashed its tail out with all of its might,
But the sword, El Cantante, was keen for a fight.

Each blow from the dragon it countered with force,
Its perfect voice rang, never shrill, never hoarse.
But then the beast issued a fiery onslaught—
No sword e’er endured such a firestorm so hot!
And though it still offered a lively defense,
The enveloping heat of the fire was intense.
The sword kept on singing by light of the moon,
And yet the heat pushed it a bit out of tune.
So deeply offended by sharpness of pitch,
In disgust, Anton hurled the blade into a ditch!
Now weaponless, he had no choice but retreat,
And as he ran, billowing flames scorched his seat.
To this bold adventure no bard will attest,
But given the outcome, that’s probably best!

By Steve Nunes