Ser Round

The knights parley late on the bloody war’s eve,

Tactics discussions so we may live.

“We should arrange our very best troops,

In single-file lines, not just groups,

With a right angle after every triple-knight,

Half the angles left and half of them right.

That will cut through the enemies like butter,

Start in their guts a fearful little flutter.”

Said Ser Rated, a veteran of war,

Of two hundred battles, maybe even more.

“No, we start with me in the middle,

Keeping rhythm with my fiddle,

Every other knight exactly, no more,

Than twenty paces from me, I am the core.

Like the outline of the sun we march onwards,

Leaving the enemies’ bones for the birds.”

That was Ser Round, a bloody old hand.

He lives on his green, battle-won land.

“No no no, you’re all obsolete,

With my tactic, steel won’t cut meat.

I will spread my special little smoke,

With my wheelbarrow made of oak.

When our foe smells my little trick,

He’ll love us dearly, sure and quick.

No one will die, no one will suffer,

And we get their country for a buffer.”

Said Ser O’tonin, the wisest of the bunch.

He persuaded the king, that’s my hunch.

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