Morning Constitutional

by Ook, Warrior Poet

ALAS I AM A FARMER, I'm just a simple farmer
I wear my roughened robes so as to hide my homemade armor
The townsfolk trade their wares and swap dull pleasantries —
the more I hear of urban ills, the more I want to flee

I heard that he was here today, the man who killed my hens
and thus I came to find him — and BRING HIM TO HIS END!
I cannot find a single man who knows this fiend of mine
no matter how my robes are rough or little my coins shine

I turn away from one last stall whose patrons all seem dullards
and see at last that villain's stance! His hands! His boots! His gullards?
I draw my axe. I draw my scythe. I draw my stomach in
I shout his name! I start the game! I am his danger twin!

He seeks to shrug me off at first, my parries weak and knowing
My posture begs for mercy — and his blackened rage is growing!
Then my metal catches red. Then green. Then brown. Then red again.
The handle slickens, sleek with gore, of offal, stench, and WIN!

He looks at me, all vengeance mine, my blades a gory mess
he sighs and says, "I shoulda known" and dies a wretched death
I stand and watch his trickling for just a moment more
before I slouch to hearth and home and all my farming bores

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