Some Poetry. Sorry.

David Wilson’s Dead

The Grey Horde gathers on green, grassy field
Come to witness the Young Pretender yield
A pale, autumnal sun casts shadows long
Their Champion prepares amidst the throng

There, ‘cross the field, the Challenger beckons
Whilst the King takes counsel from his Seconds
On every chest a crest of Black and Gold
And blood will spill before the day grows old

The crowd step back, the battle stage revealed
Step forth, without weapon, armour or shield
They dodge and parry, no advantage found
Then the King is struck, he stumbles, gives ground

His rival drives forth, no mercy he shows
Unleashing blow, after blow, after blow
Without a word, the Monarch surrenders
And cedes his throne to the Young Pretender

His loyal subjects gather round, “Arise!”
They cry, to no avail, for still he lies
In panic they scatter and chance to find
An elder of stature, with calm, sound mind

They tug at her skirt and try to make heard,
They clamour, they cry “David Wilson’s Dead!”
She turns with rolling eyes and patient sigh,
With kindness, stoops to meet the children’s eyes

“Calm down Boys, now tell me… one at a time,”
Like a classroom greeting, their voices chime
in practiced rhythm like a scripture read 
as one voice, “Please Miss, David Wilson’s dead.” 

NB David Wilson is not dead, the last I heard he still lives in Dumbarton where he runs a small business.

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