I thought of this while walking my dog...don't ask why...
Behind a mass of blood and bone, barking his commands.
Fretful now, because of the battle,
upon the city gates,
a bumbling guard rushes past him,
two hours late.
A hasty militia of volunteers,
in a dutiful row,
deathly white upon their faces,
like midwinter snow.
The bloody roar of the enemy,
clinching faces tersely,
the first charge of the enemy,
carrying no mercy.
Like clockwork, the defending archers
mounted their crimson bows,
the quivering eye, the twitching arm,
aiming their shots low.
The first hail hit like a storm,
felling many men,
the yew is nocked,
flexed, and released,
the death comes again.
The wheels of a cart,
the sound of the drum,
cutting through the clamor,
a catapult, rising through the black,
bearing the enemy's banner.
--Flaming pitch came through the night,
flung with the force of twenty score's might,--
The best ever Army Tactician,
planning his retreat,
from the tactican's mouth, a whimper,
from the door, a final creak.
The enemy entered the defending fort,
and entered the tactician's den,
the best Army Tactician,
was never heard again.
So take from this story, little children,
this moral of today,
you never know winning or losing,
'till ya join the bloody fray.
Poetry by Lucas
Read 934 times
Written on 2006-05-01 at 22:00
Tags Tactics Death War
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Tactician
The best ever Army Tactician, perched atop a stand,Behind a mass of blood and bone, barking his commands.
Fretful now, because of the battle,
upon the city gates,
a bumbling guard rushes past him,
two hours late.
A hasty militia of volunteers,
in a dutiful row,
deathly white upon their faces,
like midwinter snow.
The bloody roar of the enemy,
clinching faces tersely,
the first charge of the enemy,
carrying no mercy.
Like clockwork, the defending archers
mounted their crimson bows,
the quivering eye, the twitching arm,
aiming their shots low.
The first hail hit like a storm,
felling many men,
the yew is nocked,
flexed, and released,
the death comes again.
The wheels of a cart,
the sound of the drum,
cutting through the clamor,
a catapult, rising through the black,
bearing the enemy's banner.
--Flaming pitch came through the night,
flung with the force of twenty score's might,--
The best ever Army Tactician,
planning his retreat,
from the tactican's mouth, a whimper,
from the door, a final creak.
The enemy entered the defending fort,
and entered the tactician's den,
the best Army Tactician,
was never heard again.
So take from this story, little children,
this moral of today,
you never know winning or losing,
'till ya join the bloody fray.
Poetry by Lucas
Read 934 times
Written on 2006-05-01 at 22:00
Tags Tactics Death War
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
Feiyn |
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PoeticProcrastination |
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Steven Mawer |
