Fighting Poem by Jonathan Howard

Fight your fi ght all mornings now,
And see the fl ow of blood;
Make tournáments yours, which is how
You make those torrents fl ood.

Men cannot beat the force of God,
They’re tools in forgers’ hands;
So, battle’s useless, off you sod!
For your life’s in the strands.

You think the bells are just for you,
You couldn’t be more wrong.
You know, the requiem’s all that’s true,
Nobody’ll sing your song.

Unable to be showing force,
For you’re a pawn onboard;
You’re not the valiant fi ghting source
That could hold well a sword.

(Winter 2004-2005.)