13# The Peasant's Tale

Here begins the Peasant's Tale,
a gruesome story of chain and mail.
A tale of courage, a tale of might,
a tale of what falls off tonight.

Here comes the lord, of this fief,
a lord in name but really a thief.
He plunders and steals, lies and deals,
but gives no thought to who works his fields.

We harvest his grain, and work his farm,
while he sits in his castle, away from harm.
We wash his clothes and cook his meals,
yet he gives no thought to how we feel.

Fed up are we, he cares not for our plight,
we shall plan our revenge on him tonight.
We shall kill him, he shall die,
No one will miss him, no one will cry.

A battle rages, ten days hence,
our lord worries not for he knows how to fence.
Provided of course, his armor was strong,
but it shan't be, for we have planned this long.

Our lord and a soldier, locked in combat,
one sharp blow and the other won't come back.
They fight and rage, swords clashing with steel,
both fight with almost religious zeal.

But our lord shall fall, make no mistake,
for we cut up his armor and glued it with paste.
The solider strikes hard, and our lord stumbles,
the least of his problems for his armor crumbles.

He lifts his sword, for one more blow,
our lords arm is lopped off, a sight to behold.
It falls to the ground with a dreadful thud,
covered in mud, covered in blood.

He dies slow, our revenge is sweet,
a fitting end a tyrant should meet.
No fingers were pointed, we shan't worry,
for here ends the tale of the peasants story.