By: Idris Posted on: January 30, 2006
Diminutive Buckawn, your manners are coarse.
Your hair is dishevelled and tangled as gorse.
Of honour, you possess the share of a flea,
No wit, no charisma, your outlook is dismal.
The tip of my rapier your future shall be.
And who shall come running to vindicate thee?
The green forest Dryads with bright tears are weeping,
Rain of the Ithmia into earth seeping.
Mourning the dead and tormented spirits.
Tree-sisters bound, thrown coldly to ground.
Now softly, as vengeance approaches. You hear it?
Yea, little Buckawn, my battle song. Fear it.
Oh! So you've a quick blade of your own.
Come knave and reap the seeds you have sown.
You'll soon wish your sword a plough-share again.
Red moon take the sky, the harvest draws nigh,
And I've nary a field but this deep forest glen
And the old dingy fortress you skulk around in.
The Forest is Watching our sanguinary duel.
Will I or this wizened Buckawn play the fool?
In my mind's recesses, sage words I am heeding.
True to my vow to swashbuckler, Ms. Brau,
With style and flair my rapier is speeding
To puncture my foe 'fore I succumb to this bleeding.
My taunting is flawless, I dodge with such grace
That I narrowly miss being spit in the face.
The Buckawn's old mates have arrived; there are three,
Bright-helmed and quick with dirks that do prick.
From a gash in my side the blood rushes free.
And who shall come running to resurrect me?