Call To Arms Poem by Frank Witte

My friend has been hurt,
in truthfulness deceived,
by a treacherous word,
by a promise believed.

So I pick up my stained gloves,
slide the chainmail past my cheeks,
sword in hand to defend love's
charm from what a traitor speaks.

A hope undying is easilly cluttered
by the filth such a rodent has uttered.
Gnawing away at the essence of love
with an eager male chauvinist bluff.

My leather padded armor still brittle,
my helmet from the last battle a little
scourged and my hands burnt by flame,
my lips still whisper your virtuous name.

Know, that never will I abandon your side,
and although for every lost battle I cried,
you have my allegiance to the end of days
for such love still exists, whatever he says.