The trip to Canterbury was one of great advent’a,
Unless, of course, you were a maiden of great dementia.
The roads were filled with squires, nuns, and monks,
And gentlemen who thrived in the game of hunts.
Upon this road was one that strode in the back,
She was ridden upon a horse, mane of white, fur of black.
Upon the woman’s crown
Was a top hat, large and round.
The countenance she bore was one of mystery,
And her voice was one that could entrance a flee.
The Mistress, she was called
If you thought it scandalous, she would be appalled.
No, the name itself meant great estate owner,
One with servants and plenty of money for donor.
She was rather fond of traveling here and there,
She enjoyed the sultry wind and how it flown through her hair.
The Mistress wore attire of one not so normal,
It was almost aristocrat-like, so clean and so formal.
Upon her left eye was a single spectacle
That shone brightly, for it was a monocle.
The Mistress was not seen by most,
For her black a