Forth he fared at the fated moment,
His sturdy shield as the surfboard broad.

It bore him over ocean’s billow,
humming Kingsmen, as late his favorite,
while water white he weathered wild
from the beach his beloved thought him so cool…
In the barrel broke a brow-beat vassal,
a squire, clueless, eating it large:
there came he down on the surfing lord
a tan on his breast, the envy of kings,
by right the wave was his. But still in his leisure
he failed to see the kook drop in.
No surfer have I known could stay upright
yet with shield for board and a wetsuit of metal,
with breastplate and blade: a path the knight made
cut corduroy like in Indo
and in the soup the squire did stay.
The beachbound praised his lordly gifts,
but his best girl said he wasn’t done
and truly, when in mush the ocean lay
sole on the seas, he still rode wild.
High o’er his head they hoist the standard,
a seaweed laurel; let nightfall take them,
his is to ocean. A weenie roast? Sear it!
Well done all his food. Such knight is not able
to say in sooth, no son of the waves,
no hero ‘neath heaven,—I’ll take a dinner break!

Wear this shirt: if your nickname is “Rusty”.

Don’t wear this shirt: if you’re trying to impress The Lady of the Lake. There’s usually no good surfing in a lake.

This shirt tells the world: “I might be gentry but I sure ain’t landed!”

We call this color: Black Water.

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