The Duel And so it was In the limpid hours of dawn The sun's bright disk barely cracking the emblazoned horizon Pouring forth like a great, spewing plinth Upon the verdant lowlands That I saw There, rampant upon the soil Swords strapped upon their heaving flanks Grim resolution written in their eyes The chosen heroes...or villains...of the hour Step forth to triumph or miserable demise! And in what cloistered bower In what perfumed boudoir Doth their maiden wait? Her breath coursing in whispered snatches Her birdlike heart pounding Like the pendulum of a tiny Swiss clock Fashioned by some wizened machinist of yore Toiling over the instruments of his ancient trade Like a god toiling over the creation of a sentient ape! Nay! Think not of death and tragedy. Think rather of the merry play of the Fates Weaving their inscrutable tapestries Upon our vagrant lives With complacent, fathomless disdain Tempered by a teaspoon of easy grace. If 'twere not for the fact That a lady abandoned is akin To a fine car that lacks a differential Better that both these heroes should fall And thus in their falling Provide fertile ground for a century Of exaggerated tales of manly prowess... But wait! The hour soon arrives. And I must hasten down the following wind To Rouen, marvelous Rouen Where my lover awaits! Angelique! I am coming! I cannot stay and see blood spilled upon this field. Let the devil take the hindmost And may it be Winston. - Malcolm Buggeroll (writing from Rouen, France)
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