When they look down
at their miniatures flaccid inactive
and filled embarrassment and pent rages
they scramble to desks
and with onyx fingers and quills
satiate their despair in fanciful incantations
and whimsical curses
warriors stand with Excalibur
gilded craftsmen with gifted lances
the harlequins script dirges
for down below
the quick-fire from stubs and twigs
will never light up a storm
or keep the home fires burning
in body and soul
so in anger
they squat in caves and pen ditties to the invader
spewing that which they cannot utter
in hand to hand or face to face
envious hate run deep
and they wish Long Staff was dead
and vibrant Moors never crossed the Caspian
with their ornamental daggers
and long swords