Ode to the Warrior

Across the deserted desert plains
a sort-of knight did ride,
his testicles in his mind, so huge!
he insisted on riding side.
His mount was a chiseled male
(no gayness was implied).
He wore his smirkish smile
as a badge of personal pride.

His thoughts, if spoken,
would have offended the wise
and startled the clergy who whispered
with averted eyes.
The fact that he was a warrior
was of no real surprise,
but what he couldn't slay with his sword
he tried to advise.

This was usually the point
where they insisted on defeat,
rather than listen to him talk
they wanted death so sweet;
when he wouldn't take up his sword,
they'd fall to his feet
begging please, have mercy!
a swipe at the neck, so neat!

Instead of the trail of bodies
one would expect in his stead,
he was left with an abundance
of strong words in his head
and no way to release them
except at night while in bed,
until one night he lovingly
stroked his mount instead.

Nobody remembers the details
of what happened that night,
they say between beast and man
it sure was a helluva fight.
One of them fell, was struck,
when he glanced to the right,
but died when they fell as one
onto the sword of the knight.

With every unsung hero
arises a desire to sing him true;
with great preamble I offer
this ballad sung to you.
While here is immortalized
a saga that almost nobody knew,
The question that will be asked is
"Who, exactly, fucked who?"

(To Salt. With Love.)