My Lancelot, my Lancelot,
I'll change your name when we leave Camelot.
We'll disappear into a sylvan dream.
The castle, with its high-walled gates,
Its ramparts, its fancy plates and designated places to sit
In the mead hall will be no more
Than the memory of some rotted thing drudged up from the stinking moat.

And if we live in a cave or a hut,
We will call it Halcyon,
And kindle the hearth of Love and Peace
In the quiet home of favored bliss
Within the orb of our tangled arms embrace.

But what shall I change your great name to?
Is there something more lofty than Monta-goo?
Or even Lancelot?
And what is in a name, anyway?
What word could dare speak of the worlds I see in your face?

-jenn