By THLaird Colyne Stewart, March AS 50 (2016)
A horn upon his head does grow
Each time he steps upon the field
His armour, magic, does not glow,
As tight he grips his mystic shield.
Opponents meet, the shots are thrown
It caught my sleeve! Light! Tippy! Flat!
He dances up the field and down
An undead curl, a cheat, a rat.
The skill is there but easier still
To shrug a blow, refuse to fall,
The lure of victory, titles, fill
The tin can’s heart which is so small.
What void so big, what is deprived,
To sell one’s honour for so cheap?
To sully all for which one’s strived,
To make one’s consort silent weep?
The rhino does not think these thoughts
Too caught up in the sirens’ call
Not knowing that the past is wrought
By present those who saw it all.
Respect is earned, it is not won,
Son, think on that ‘ere tourney’s done.