Monty Python and the Holy Grail

In the murky mist of England’s swampy moor, Sir Lancelot clutching scabbard, forgotten o’er, Sir Robin dashes, barely breathing the air, While Monty Python’s clip‑boards spin their snare.

The “Knight who says Ni” guffaws near the tree, A crown of leaves they keep green – absurdity. They demand a shrub, a shrub, and a shrub of the pine, Only to turn the forest into a… “granite” sign.

The Black Knight, unshinned, continues to swing, “A fight? Not a fight? I am a Knight!” he rings. His arm‑labour, ten times, bravely with a sigh, “Now, for God's sake, abandon me – the seafarer, fly?*—”

In the village, the cathedral reckons integration, An official “jardin” breaks the tune, a new generation, The peasants fruitlessly “avoir‑le‑bandours!” – with fine measure, Only by the “Holy Hand Grenade” in the final line (smack those letters).

Behind the “theatre”, a bare knave surface twines, Plotlines twist, the “kings” relax in the Hall of the Divine, The opal of the palace, the spear before the wasp, In the colour of the blue, a weeping des graciy.

So raise the glass – a pint of bitter to your side, All the clobbering of the “crumble” “a adventure”, “clash]; The look and lens – are the sky’s intent in delight, For the Mythic quest into front and back of the Holy, Holy.

(Word count: ~ 250 characters; Spanish twist may be partially disguised in traditional terms.
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