The Crusades

One of the better poems of my early years…but hardly less morbid…

Over the big hills the small army marched

Right up and through the king’s wide arch

Neither right nor left did they turn to look

And so for comrades they were mistook

Up into the King’s large room they poured

And slaughtered him there with knife and sword

Down into the court yard again they did flow

And fought to the death with knife and bow

Nary a soul was left on that day

And bodies were strewn like fresh mown hay

~Copyright 2002