Keeps watch by day and by night;
Alert, he’s perched atop the ridge,
A jolly sort of sprite.
The bridge is old, none go across
Its glory days are past;
Few see the knight, to their great loss
They hurry by too fast.
Tedium does not plague the soul
Of our solitary deer,
For close at hand is a fishing pole
And a frosty mug of beer.
I do not know from whence he came
Or whither he may go,
Or why he thought, in Heaven’s name,
To watch here in the snow.
But he remains, though cold his post
In Mother Nature’s fridge;
So join me in a heartfelt toast: