Thy prowess at the chessboard doth abound,
Or so thou say'st, in whispers all around,
A master, claimed, of knights and queens and rooks,
Yet in thy hands, the pieces sigh like books,
Unread, unopened, gathering of dust,
While pawns, with weeping, yield to fate unjust.

Thine opening moves, oh, marvel to behold,
With such finesse, as stories often told,
Thou sacrific'st thy bishop straight away,
As if to say, "I care not for the play!"
The knight leaps forth, in glory now misplaced,
And finds itself in corners all disgraced.

The queen, thy gem, thy pride of all the game,
She dances wide, but never strikes the same.
To the foe’s defenses, she doth call,
"Come, take me now, 'fore I should surely fall!"
And lo! She falls, as though 'twere planned, indeed,
For thou, good sir, dost always kindly lead.

King_Geej_IV