Lots of cereal cartons and silver foil, finished off with a lace petticoat, leather gauntlets (well, gloves with milk bottle tops attached) and a fencing helmet disguised the brave St George, while ten sporty neighbours provided the dancing feet of Draco.
In the excitement of the ensuing battle, the photographer failed to pay enough attention to such things as ensuring the feet of St George were in the frame, rather than several pairs of onlookers dittos which would have been better out of shot.
However, a right royal skirmish ended with a noble death on the part of the dragon, who, nevertheless, still managed to live to tell another tale, I'm quite sure...
I may be back later with a draconian ditty - or I may not. Watch this space... OK, you can stop watching - here it is...
Draconian Ditty
I took my harp to this party
but nobody asked me to play.
Everyone there was too busy
following Dragons, that day.
The ten legged beastie was playful,
and staggered around like a loon,
but the shine on St George’s brave helmet
was really what caused it to swoon.
Then, dazzled, the dragon expired,
while it glittered in afternoon sun,
and its mournful voice croaked in an agonized wail
“Oh, no! Saints Alive – I’m undone!”
The sun had ignited his nostrils,
so none were surprised when he spoke.
“That additional heat was the trigger,
and now I am billowing smoke!”
Feel sorry for dragons, dear reader,
for I’m certain that everyone knows,
the tenderest spot for such burning
is the tip of a dragony nose.
Okay all smart alecks (you know who you are) who can't wait to tell me there were twenty legs, not ten -I'm already ahead of you - ten PAIRS, I should have said, but it would have messed up the meter.
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