Sir Winifred Whyte was a randy old knight
Whose penchant was savoring a maiden;
He searched far and wide but few could abide
His bargaining regarding the trade-in.
This errant knight, put many to flight
So inept his debaucheries' fumbling;
Too quick to proclaim, his prowess and fame
He aborted, 'fore starting his tumbling.
He once at his side, a prospective bride
Stood up for the whole world to see;
Her father's shame, at the cost to his name,
The last minute, said this not to be!
No one to rattle, the knight to his saddle
His retinue strung out for miles;
He later found them, only to astound them
Requesting a bidet for his piles.
Sir Winifred's plight came to the light
Of a spinster residing in Turriage;
Her magnanimous offer included a fine coffer,
So he pled for her hand in marriage.
Quickly, her yes brought the bishop to bless
This union so perfect for both;
Not one to dance a lot, Winifred's lancelot
Saluted the permanence of troth.
Sir Winifred Whyte astonished in spite
Of an education so long in the making;
He, a fine horse, upset, to be put away wet,
When ridden hard in a great undertaking.
So while the new Whytes spend their long nights
Researching the nuances of communion,
All the young lasses, with uplifted glasses
Make toasts, to the old rake's last union.