Rage rotates my weapons of woe
Severing and slaying the subjects below
Schink! Schunk! Clunk-clank! and they're dead
Spewed from my mouth. Their corpses thrown ahead
My feet churn, my body turns, and my innards burn to earn
The glory of the gory win, over the wretched fern
For he is a foe of exceptional growth
Of all my rivals and victims, he towers them both
Yet on this day, I must turn away
And concede defeat where it lay
For by and by, my efforts lie nigh to shred him bit by bit
But tarry no comfort and remain wary, for ne'er shall I quit
Lo, the day, 'tis not all at loss
For many fiends have fallen. Grasses, weeds, and moss
So for now, I rest, among the scattered slain
Silenced … Eager to face the fern once again