Apologies To Tennyson..A Travesty Poem by Steve Howard

Beyond the tethered sheaves of barley,
she sent me and cousin Charlie.
Beyond where Lancelot had ridden,
into the farmer's fields unbidden.
There to fetch on home an onion,
to make a poultice for her bunion.
We gathered here, we gathered there,
in abandon wild, without a care.
We filled a sack up to complete.
With various veggies'twas replete.
At first me lady seemed quite thrilled,
but then her sweet demeanor chilled.
For in the sack she found no onion,
for remission of her bunion.
A likely tuber I held high,
"Doth this thing not suit the eye?
I say to you, this thing will do.
No need to vote and count the ballot.
What you see, is what you got.
Just shut up and use the Shallot.