He was just a boy when he bought his wooden
sword, and shield made out of plastic,
from a kiosk at a carnival.

Was a priceless prize, that weapon and its partner.
Security against every wolf and monster
and beggar and vagabond.
Life and livelihood assured.

He was a warrior then.

But time passes and, often cruelly.
The sword has broke, the shield
too small to strap. Was never seen fit
to buy another.

Defenseless.

Ripped apart by wolves and monsters.
Taken, by the vagabonds, for all he’s got.
Wretched and shameful.

Wretched,
and shameful,
and to top it all,
his car won’t start.

God Damn It.