Swelled, he's a chivalrous knight with a poonlance,
As it darts way up above his thighs.
This phallusbuttress knight can make romance—
He's a lover of octopus size.
He can siege like a liege when vassallin',
Cleaving belted ramparts down below.
He pricks the lock and then gets his maul in—
Dethrones Quimevere who moans so low.
As he's working his lance in, it is like a puncheon.
Then meanwhile rapid friction shines her escutcheon.

CHORUS:
Can we just have one more poonlance from you, Lancelot?
Won't you take off your metal pants and unglove, Lance, love?

Swelled, he has thrown down the gantlet tonight;
His jousting will make miladies come.
He camelot, his lancelot upright
To let him service every chevron.
He's chivalric; "Cheval Dick" they've named him.
They don't jest; he's blessed; they'd guess, one stone.
As he trysts in the lists, he's missed no miss.
Merlin made merkins, but his dirk's honed.
First he shouts, "Sexcalibre!" Then he slips it inside.
After pulling it out from a rock that skinned his hide.

CHORUS

One more poonlance from you in the poontight.
Merlin's magic's right.
La, la, la, la lance in the poontight.
Can we just have one more poonlance from you, Lance, love?