In the morning, I swear it, she was making a move on me,
Catching me cowering under the covers,
Trapping me, tempting me with her tits in my face --
Low-hanging fruit and fit for the plucking --
But I'd promised to trade back every day's profit,
And the prospect of giving a grope or a tumble
To as hearty and hairy a man as mine host
my preference and pleasure
as a way to pay my shot;
but equal trade for treasure
is what's done in Camelot.
So three days running I racked my brains,
Morning and mid-day and mid-afternoon,
Working my wits to keep free of her wiles
And claim no more in the end than a careful kiss
Such as guest to host might give without scandal
At even-tide in the hall, to hold the score settled.
As for the green baldric she gave me on the third day --
I never thought it was part of the game we were playing
Here in the Green Knight's chapel
I swear, ere worse befall,
I thought temptation's apple
was our dalliance in hall.