Thursday, 14 April 2011


in the year of farms, where animals nightly roam,
outside the bounds of human's, pig's home;
toils mighty the strength of slightly in fright,
of death for others, the chivalrous knight.
for money or hay, there is not naught,
for queen and country this old mare fought;
only but to not afford, his coffin in blunder,
through taken in wreaths, his own six feet under.

in selflessness lives, in lonesome is death,
to each knight lies, and lives through last breath;
and cannot repay what is valued by none,
until there's left all nary but one.
so, queen, dictate and steady your hand,
'tis not without love lost in reprimand;
and tell him, your knight, of moon-lit - star shine,
while intoxicated with bribe and sickly cheap wine.

then feed him no meal, and feed him no love,
until comes death's angel from low or above;
then forget him just as you had with your brother,
when in fact he was ready to give smother.

and know that this knight will forever love thee devotee,
even when your heart and hand is with he.

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