All fiery lizards are instinctive hoarders
They love to to fill their cave to the boarders
With anything from gold to well groomed shrubs
This all mama dragons teach to their scaly cubs
This dragon in particular prefers to collect books
Strange he doesn't ****** up riches with his mighty hooks
Odd taste doesn't bother our winged friend
For he has no numb knights who want to contend
Silly sirs only want pretty damsels and crops on good loam
None are interested in his scrolls, and big dusty tome
Yes, this allows for plenty of time for him to study his loot
As his collection grows, so too this dragon is more astute
No other wyvern can challenge his knowledge
He has enough intellect to out wit any college
Unfortunately, the nature of his species is the only contrary.
For every time he sneezes he burns down half of his library

Walking silently down the alley, no thoughts only spite for everything that lives. Gain is a stranger but loss is his close friend, or fiend.
    Walking silently down the alley, his weapon, ancient and rusty, grinds against the cold brick wall that creates the alley; The tool is hungry, and does not like to be kept waiting.
    Walking silently down the alley, a conscience, twisted black long ago, feels not for whatever moves.
    Walking silently down the alley, his hideous bulk is hidden by the night’s surreal shadows, like a blanket wrapped around the fiend by Beelzebub himself.
    Walking patiently down the alley, the fiend identifies a late night’s unlucky traveler.
    Walking hungrily down the alley, the fiend wraps the blanket closer, preparing to strike.
    Walking hastily down the alley, His eyes widen in a sickening blithe, his tool’s feast has come to him.
    Running down the alley, the fiend’s prey realizes too late that he is to be fed to the starving tool.
    Leaping down the alley, The tool’s curved blade is like a ***** smile, as it buries itself into innocent flesh.
    Standing in the alley, The fiend watches as his tool guides his arm back into the flesh again and again like a ravenous beast until it is sated once again
    Walking down the alley, The fiend waits until his tool is hungry again.

Two forces collide
    Right
    Left
    Left Again.
    Gloved fists beat into bone and blood
    The stone will never move
    The ox will make the stone move
    Left hook
    Right hook
    two jabs.
    The ox beats the stone
    The ox hammers the stone
    The ox hurts the stone’s feelings
    Uppercut
    Right
    Right Again
    Left.
    The stone cracks
    The ox breaks its horn
    Jab
    Jab
    Right hook.
    The Boxer’s ribs are cracked
    The Boxer’s ribs are broken
    Left cross
    Right cross
    Uppercut.
    Fist connects to skull
    The Boxer’s world is black
    Then its white
    Now its back to normal
    Two jabs
    Left
    Left Again.
    The Boxer’s world is the ring
    The world begins at one post and ends at another
    Left
    Right
    Right Again
    Left
    Left Again.
    One eye is swollen shut
    The other blinded by blood
    Jab
    Jab
    Left hook
    Right cross
    Uppercut.
    The blood clears away
    Now the Boxer’s world is the ceiling
    And the lights
    Both real and imagined.
    The world goes black
    Then white.

The banker sits for his lunch. He sits with his superiors. They ask, “how do you?” He replies, “Good, and you sir?” After pleasantries comes food. Everyone ordered a salad. Food is picked at with dashes of chatter. After food comes business. Business among superiors. The banker sits quietly using his wasted acting talents on feigning interest. He twiddles thumbs, smacks gums, and adjusts weight from one flank to the other.
The bored banker nods conformatively. When addressed, his name varies from Tim to Tom to Jack. They were close it was Al. He fills in facts and numbers the optimates don’t care to recall themselves. It’s the only use he has at lunch. Those superior to the banker could have brought his report he made up for this occasion. But, there is an air of aristocracy when one has a serf accompany his master to a meeting of patricians. Like all courtly meetings, the barons and governors hide slights in compliments, cloak ambition in kindness. Use pens as daggers, dried ink as poison.
It’s not the banker’s place to notice such things, it is place to serve those who deserve his servitude. Every time he services his lordships, his tie gets tighter, his skin looser, and his bald spot increase its diameter.
The bored and defeated banker rises with the Bourgeoisie, clings to their heels, and gets the door. His lunch is over. His break is done. Back to his desk he retreats. Back to work. His time as a squire is done. Until his masters call upon him again. For lunch.