I snort, I drool --
Such hell even to breathe.
I can barely raise
My huge head.
Charging so hurts -
So only
In short spurts.
Oh the pain!
Old losers on horseback
Have tortured
My shoulders
With pointed sticks.
My neck is so weak,
God damn it,
And I so need
To hurt something,
Someone back.
And now I'm faced
With this slim
Young idiot
In fancy dress.
Jesus Christ!
Just him and me.
You'd think it
A walkover -
Me so massive,
He so slight.
But that's not
How it works,
In this arena.
He's the one with
The sword.
I just mustn't turn
My back on him.
Follow his every move!
But I'm so damned tired.
But so furious.
Of a sudden
There's a change
Of tone, a stillness.
Can I manage one
Last lunge?
The stifling air is heavy --
With what? Expectation?
Lust? A solemn sense of
Culmination? A completed
Rite?
This, then, is It.
Perhaps one more lunge
Of my huge, agonizing body
Will finish off this little
Bastard even as it
Finishes off me.
I know I'm lunging
To my very own death.
Do I care? Do I care?
My whole life
Has been this
Lunge!
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