When hunger strikes but one, they faint and fall,
but famine grants the masses desperate strength.
The folk in arms arise against the King:
at first, the lesser clans of minor trade
the stirrings lead; the King and lords they try,
and gaol secure; then humbler folk, by grim
starvation pricked, arise in bloodshot wave
the new-found rule to topple from its seat,
and in the further parts they triumphs win
so little folks and nations there they found,
that heartland burghs and middle folk defy.
The King to execution-block proceeds.
Then petty queens and blade-born doomsday sects
in thousand wars the land to slivers rend,
as every aldor would-be godling grows,
and passion every kinship overthrows.
The poet they probably shouldn’t have sent. I watch anime and am sometimes accused of reading books. I'm writing a long gay giant robot story in verse—probably this millennium's best yuri mecha epic poem, through lack of competition.
'Now praise those names on tombs of steel engraved | And toll this rotting country’s countless bells.'
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