Outrageous Commands and Contrasting Demands.

"Oh, this is _really_ quite dull," declared the bored Queen. "Just bash in his skull. I don't want him seen." With a start and a hop, the nearest poor fop Ran straight for the fellow wearing trousers of yellow, And, right in his ear, thus screamed: "Her Majesty _orders_ your face to be _reamed_!" "Injustice, I say!" yelled the prey of foul play, As he tripped o'er a crypt and fell down said dark pit. Yet, he still was alive, for throughout the long dive, His good roughened hands found him some stray strands Of thick, braided vine - a fortuitous find. "Isn't he dead by now? For he _will_ be, I vow." Drawled her Cruel Highness, still dressed in her finest. "Unless, I digress, it'd be the Press he'd assess... Hmm. On second thought," she said, extremely distraught. "Retrieve him with zeal; I want him to kneel. Oh yes, that is right - no, dear man, it's foolish to fight. You just stay there, and I hope you're aware That you've been saved by pure chance, but as a boon for a loon, you are now dubbed...Sir Pants!"