Chess ballad

- Daddy, tell me about the Battle of the Widow’s meadow.
- So, you want to hear about that fateful battle? Alright, but then you’ll be a good boy and go to sleep?
- Yes, daddy.
- I’ll read you a poem. I wrote it right after the battle with the blood-splattered armour still on me and the din still in my ears. My verses may be not as smooth as of those court peacocks whose pansy hands never held a lance and who never came near a war steed. Well, listen. And do not interrupt, lest we’ll be like villains on a market square.

How beautiful is Her Majesty’s stern face
As she regards the noxious race
That came from beyond the gates of Hades unsealed
And now darken that side of this battlefield
The last sunrays play on her silver brace
Majestic hand is on the royal mace.
My Queen, these ghouls so foul and base
Will surely vanish without a trace!
At last the clarion sounds
The attack on the scabby hellhounds
The thrust of Sir Stuart’s lance
Commenced the macabre deathdance.

The bishop of Her Majesty’s regiment was a true paragon of valour. I was blest to see him in the heat of battle putting fear of God into those brutes and rending their cursed lines like a rotten rag.

The Bishop stormed like an Angel of God’s wrath.
Woe to those who stood in his path
For he would his formidable weapon wield
Crushing any helm and shield
With “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”
He hammered skulls open like a pastry crust
And let brains spurt out.
Always abhorring bloodshed – even in this bout.
Boom! Another head of a devilkin
Burst like a putrid pumpkin
The valiant Bishop
Gave a hearty wallop
To the Trollop
Queen of Rot and Blight
And killed her outright.
A holy man of a great brawn
Alas, was stabbed by a devil’s spawn
The foe’s blade was dipped in a bane
The poor Bishop died of Mortal Pain
--
A desperate pack of rogues led by a dark priest tried to assassinate
His Majesty
But

The king’s broadsword fell on a dark-priest
And halved the fiendish beast.

And we slew the others.
--
The golems did quell
Some foes
Alas, they did not fare well
Were slain
--
- And you daddy? Did you kill many of those swine?
- Well, I’ve not red water in my veins, but don’t interrupt.

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust”
My lance thrust and thrust,
And could my hate
Not quench,
God, I hate these dastards’ stench!
--
The last dark knight
His Majesty put to the sword –
Such was fiasco
Of the sordid horde

That black rabid cur, those vermin called their Emperor tried to escape with the remains of his infantry, but in vain. After the last skirmish

At last
He cast away his broken shield
He had to yield
And so he did.
We dragged him shamefaced on a chain
And had him slain.
--
- No-one can vie with our glorious power, right Daddy?
- Yes, son.
- Was that all daddy?
- Not quite. We heard the voice of God from heaven. I remember it as if it had been yesterday, the smoke of the battle still hung thick when we heard ‘Hey, bracelets are not clothes, you cheat!’

- What does it mean daddy?
- I don’t know. Revelations are oft unclear, and I’m not a theologian. You can ask your confessor tomorrow. And now, kiss me good night and sleep.
- What happened next, after you heard the voice of God?
- We had a victory feast and were discharged. Be a good boy and I’ll tell you more tomorrow after breakfast. Now sleep. Good night.
- Daddy, why are revelations oft unclear?
- To test your faith.
- Why?
- Ask your confessor. Sleep. Good night.
- Good night. Thank you for the presents, daddy.
Prague Monday, May 12, 2003