There I sat as a knight with a crown,

At a table of friends who eliminated my frown.

As I departed and walked across a bridge,

The chirping birds poking through the cross-hatches,

I saw a swordsman at the other end.

Though he had no crown he possessed protection,

A sword in one hand and a shield in the other,

Protection from those only he could provoke.

And so my antagonist approached me with a taunt,

Claiming that it was his weapon that was mightier than mine.

Though I wore a crown the only weapon I wielded was a pen,

I assured him that my writing instrument was among the greatest.

He refused to believe me and provoked me with an assault,

I summoned enough strength to parry my way out.

But the outcome of this battle could only be ink and blood.

The victim of his strike was my quill,

With which I could no longer write a will.

I fell off of the bridge and landed on the rocks.

The cowardly swordsman made no attempt to confront my dying self.

Though the bones of my back were broken it was he who had no backbone.

No doubt that he would never send for help,

Nor would he ever admit what atrocity he committed.

Yet it was I who had the last laugh,

For he gave me something to write before my death.

A writer never travels without parchment,

Nor does a writer have less than two pens in a pocket.

I let my readers know that I died a happy man,

With the glowing sunlight caressing the tree bark.

I hold within my decomposing hand a composition,

And I could not have died happier if I were a swordsman.

Now you know why a smile graces my lifeless face...

-Signed by the wielder of the pen