There were two mighty warriors
whose rule upon the land
were what legends now are sewn upon
each feared by every man

Odin was like a panther
sleek and strong and lithe
nothing less than greatness
was for all that he would strive

Kester was just like a bear
his size gave him great power
over mighty oaks and castle walls
he easily would tower

The warriors began a fight
and the people stood around
peasants Lords and Nobles
threw lamenting on the ground

They fought over who had the right
to be the poet king
folk ran to preserve themselves
as the fists began to swing

Believing they both owned all words
to poetry, verse and prose
both grandiose and posturing
to each a thumb upon their nose

So the fight grew on relentless
both knew it was to death
howling obscenities from Whitman
hurling lines from out Macbeth

Yelling words of literature
pounding blows on blows
quoting Thomas Hardy
and Shakespeare's words of prose

Grabbing Kester's throat
Odin threw him to the floor
like an angry roaring lion
Odin screaming metaphor

Like madmen holding hands
grappling with each others cloak
tearing at each others skin
whose throat they'd love to choke

There had to be a victor
their words shook the city walls
Odin held tight to Kester
and kicked him in the syllables

But no one stood victorious
as poetry's life began to wain
they thrashed it till it bled
not seeing both their shame

Clothes were torn and bruises bloomed
wearing blood upon their trousers
the people cried in unison
"a plague a' both your houses"

As the warriors stood back a step
and looked upon the ground
wounded and in agony
poetry didn't make a sound

No words on lips were uttered
poetry blinked last unto the sun
for its life about was scattered
"My lords look, what have you done?"

And as they wept they looked above
Clouds gathering over head
tears blurred those fated words
on the sky the message... "He is dead"

The warriors stood on trembling knees
with death they both had kissed
the last line they both uttered
"Was sorrow... to this."