Lo! Hear now the song of the chalk-bound wyrm,
Artie Pendragon, flame-hearted and firm—
Who sleepeth long ‘neath the North Downs’ crust,
In Caterham’s cave of the ancient dust.

A thousand winters the wyrm has dwelled,
Where flint meets bone and dreams are held;
His wings are folded in stone-white gloom,
Yet his heart still burns in that sacred tomb.

When dark clouds gather and foes draw near,
The people of Caterham quake with fear—
But hark! From the hill breaks a thunderous groan,
The dragon awakes with a molten moan.

Through hazel and yew his body winds,
His eyes aglow like the forge of minds.
He speaks not words, but a roaring cry
That shakes the ridge and splits the sky.

From Saxon raiders to bombs from above,
Artie has guarded the land he loves.
He scorched the path of a poacher’s band,
And stilled the tremor with one great hand.

O sing of his scales like a storm-swept field,
Of claws that clashed and never yield.
A guardian born of Britain’s bone—
No crown he wears, but he guards a throne.

So raise your voice in the twilight’s breath,
For the dragon who sleeps not the sleep of death.
And should peril stir from the darkling fen,
Artie shall rise… to shield again.