Oh, my

The Boy:
Sir Giles, I presume? Sir Giles:
Come, come, come, come, lad. Stop mumbling. The Boy:
I came to talk about the dragon. Sir Giles:
Ah, yes, yes, yes. Another tale of woe and misery, I suppose. Devoured your flocks, no doubt. The Boy:
Oh, no, sir. He... Sir Giles:
Aha! Made off with your loving parents, has he? Well, they shall be avenged! The Boy:
But you don't understand... Sir Giles:
What? Don't tell me he's kidnapped some fair damsel, with flaxen hair, and ruby lips, and form divine? Why, he can't do that to her! He shall pay dearly on the field of battle. The Boy:
But that's just it. He won't fight. Sir Giles:
Yes. He... He won't fight? Preposterous! The fellow must be an infernal cad. Bit of a rotter, what? The Boy:
He is not. He's a nice old dragon who likes to write poetry. Sir Giles:
Poetry? The Boy:
Yes. You know, verses? Sir Giles:
How jolly! Ha ha! I'm a bit of a bard myself, you know. The Boy:
You a poet, too? Sir Giles:
Yes. No doubt you've heard of my Ode to a Fleecy Cloud? The Boy:
Well, I... Sir Giles:
Oh fleecy cloud, O cloud of fleece, up in the sky so high... Oh. Oh, my. The Boy:
Oh, my