Sir Blushington Bloone is a knight of the court,
with a face like a prune of the large, wrinkled sort,
he’s a very odd bird, with a mind of his own,
who is frequently heard singing songs to a stone.

He’s a singular lord, with a singular head,
he carries no sword, but a yo-yo instead,
he sometimes sips soup from a small, slotted spoon,
while rolling a hoop to a baffled raccoon.

Sir Blushington Bloone often goes for a ride
in a silver balloon, with a pig by his side,
and there he shampoos his immaculate wig,
while discussing the news of the day with the pig.

By the light of the moon, wearing little or less,
he sits with a loon for an evening of chess,
or waves his baton as he slogs through the bogs,
conducting a swan and a chorus of frogs.

He’s been seen on the green on the tips of his toes
as he balances beans on the end of his nose,
he flies kites from his ears every Tuesday at noon,
oh, a knight with no peers is Sir Blushington Bloone.