They fought with swords and shields in sorted fields
of acrimony, declared life and limb to a barren kingdom,
bowed to the royal crown and wooed its fairest daughter.
They won her heart, graced her walls, and worked within them to produce an offspring
—a love child forged with the will of iron and a random, but possessive eye chart.
It nearly took the death of an empire to bring this passion to birth,
and here it so rests upon her breast, pleading an allegiance to her tattered flag.
Why even a thousand years of war demurred to her letting down her hair.
But whose army crossed that wanton bridge and stroked her into carnal submission?
Who kept watch at the crossroads?
History tells us c'est la vie was the culprit, and détente the better angel.
Sometimes it's useless to be useful...