Well.

Here we are. The next episode of A Neopoleon Creation Story.

I had written most of it much earlier, but I didn't like the way it turned out. I thought about it, trying to figure out what sucked, and then it hit me right in the face like an expertly wielded shovel in the hands of a solder in the army of sandwich:

It had to be a poem, so I scrapped the previous effort, and... wrote a poem. I don't write poems. Not often, anyway, and never well. But I had no choice - the Universe demanded that it be a poem. Although it hurt my ego to bend to the will of the Universe, I thought it was right.

I was going to do it in heroic verse, but I hate heroic verse - especially in English. It's soft and squishy. It has all the impact of melting ice-cream.

I decided instead to go with a lyrical form. I didn't stick to a particular meter, though I tried to keep it all more or less consistent. Some of the lines might feel awkward, but, hey - you get what you pay for, and you people are a bunch of freeloading bastards.

Hope you like it. I'm pleased with the result, though I expect this is a bit of writing I'm going to look back on (say, five minutes from now), and want to rewrite, or edit to the point that it becomes a different thing altogether.

With this out of the way, I can continue. The rest of the story is prose - only this one needed a special form.

Thanks for reading. I love you all as I'd love an estranged fourth-cousin.

The time was upon them, an army of men
    Of whom some had sometime been gods
Until recently, lately, just hours ago
    When sandwich tore down their holy facades.

Others were slaves, making no wage
    Who built the great city below
That the army would take, like words from a page
    From a sandwich who couldn't say "No!"

It's a bad situation, buried in complication;
    I can't think of what could be worse,
So I think what we have is not men on vacation,
    But an army deserving of verse.

It is suspected that each slave had a name
    Though no one could match to a face
A "Ben" or a "Bob" or much of the same
    So they could be simply, quite quickly erased.

Unlike the slaves, the once-gods had names
    Though none really liked to repeat
What his embroidered kerchief clearly proclaims
    About monikers not 'specially neat.

"My name is Frumpy," said a mouth from a head,
    "I once was the god of regret,
But now all I wish is that when I am dead
    My headstone won't bear this epithet."

Another called out, throwing words with a shout,
    "I don't know if you all are aware,
But I once ruled over the condition called 'gout,'
    And what's worse, my name is 'Stinkpear'!"

Then even more cries, countered by sighs,
    Like locusts flew out of the crowd,
"My name is Piddlesworth" and "My name is Pies!"
    Became much too much, much too much loud.

One man stepped forward, his patience unglued:
    "For you to speak there should be a great tariff!
And I could impose it, interest accrued,
    And you'll make all your checks out to 'Massif'!"

Silence fell, like the snow all around,
    The soldiers who regained composure,
Just a little ashamed of the tears on the ground
    They spilled over nominative exposure.

"Get it together, men, as the moment has passed,"
    Said Massif, herding the crew back together,
"For something over which to be truly aghast,
    Your lives soon will be worse than the weather.

"Your steeds are a breed of spectacular speed,
    So with pride, I say: go mount your chickens,
And find a soft spot for your seat for stampede,
    Or the ride will hurt like the dickens."

Where faces were long, the crowd suddenly cheered:
    "Let us go make a better tomorrow!"
Massif cringed:  "Like the barbs of a beard,
    Your words are my boredom; your banality, my sorrow.

"But whatever it takes to light up your courage,"
    Added Massif, uncharacteristically kindly,
"I endorse, and I back, and would never discourage,"
    "Though," said in a whisper, "You're all a bit whiny."

And so in a sprint, the men finally went
    To mount the chickens roaming the hillside.
The air smelled like war, and they'd picked up the scent!
    "It's nearly time for sandwich-o-cide!"

Some wanted to fly, so they milked all the udders
    To lighten the load for the breeze;
They don't care if the others think they're all nutters:
    They'll die in the air if they please.

The rest were content to fight from the ground:
    "We simply don't see the need
To take to the sky and flutter around,
    For wherever they hit you, you'll bleed."

But the pilots and riders agreed on one thing:
    "We need a great song to drown out the fear!
We're happy to grunt, or to hum, or to sing!
    We ask only that it pleases the ear!"

The soldiers were firm in their demand for a soundtrack
    Without notes they said, "It's no go,"
So Rory stepped up, with the wind to his back,
    And cried, "I summon Ravel's Bolero!"

Gently, a sound enveloped the corps
    Of which they were barely aware:
A marching rhythm of three against four:
    The tappings of a motivational snare.

Tat  ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta  tat tat tat
Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tatta-ta-tat!

Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta  tat tat tat
Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tatta-ta-tat!

A clarinet joined in the great army assembly,
    Smoothing staccato rat-tats.
A broad, slow arch; a slow melody
    That chilled you from your hat to your spats.

Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta  tat tat tat
Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tatta-ta-tat

Over Ravel, Massif called out an order:
    "You've got your music - now rank and file!"
To which scattered chickens moved to reorder
    (An operation that could take quite a while).

Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta  tat tat tat
Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tatta-ta-tat

Step by step, they turned disarray
    Into a grid, well ordered and wide.
An oboe came into legato-y play,
    And the clarinet started to slide.

Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta  tat tat tat
Ratta-ta-tat
    Ratta-ta-tatta-ta-tatta-ta-tat

The men had aligned like a corrected spine
    At which Massif announced with respect:
"Though you're no longer gods, this work is divine,
    And I will now, just for you, genuflect.

"And If I had them, I'd announce, with a ring of the bells:
    On my word, we'll push through the fog!
They'll remember our names (though we don't know them ourselves!)
    In History's fastidious log!

"Eyes forward, my men, straight down the hill,
    Keep your gaze always trained on your mark!
Now, like a cat, that jumps from the sill,
    We rush into war: Let's embark!"

They lurched on as one (or two, maybe three,
    Though the details don't matter right now),
Their steps out of sync, but spirits in unity,
    They went out together as best they knew how.

A few chickens squawked as they began their walk
    Toward the city of sandwich-y sin.
Though newborn they had the instinct to flock,
    Which gave them the courage to win.

The ones who'd been milked to take to the air
    Made runways of a snowy plateau,
While the ones who would run took off in a tear
    Showing off how fast Battle Chickens could go.

One God and two men brought up the rear:
    Rory, and Massif, and Felix;.
"Though their innards look similar," said a bioengineer,
    "Only the men share the same double-helix."

The Other had Been since before time began
    (Indeed, time was His own quick invention):
His job was to craft The Grand Master Plan
    Even though it was not His intention.

All He wanted was calm, with a few faithful chums
    (For without friends there is nothing to say)
But he's since been struck dumb, from his tongue to his gums,
    Having watched His world run away.

Every step forward brought Him a little more homeward;
    And though His holy BO smelled like cologne,
He had a holy thought that could not be ignored:
    Not even a God can succeed all alone.

The lot moved on, slaves and once-gods,
    Dressed like slobs, except for the One
Called "Rory," who wore a great pair of Tod's;
    A fashionable choice that could not be outdone.

Farther and farther, and farther on still,
    The city's glow diffused through the mist.
Closer and closer to the base of the hill,
    Oh, that sandwich is gonna be pissed!

Louder and louder, the Bolero crescendo,
    (A musical work that looks for a fight),
Like a violent game made for your Nintendo,
    Pierced through the air and bloodied the night.

It roared and it soared and boasted the wiles,
    Of confident men who were beaming and grinning.
Even the beaks of the birds were curved into smiles,
    (An anatomical mystery worthy of researching).

They felt unstoppable, that the enemy would lay
    Down at their feet, submissive and prostrate,
Unsure of which God would respond if they'd pray,
    Seeking the Truth, likely learning too late.

The wall of the fog would soon be behind them,
    A clear view of the city impatiently waited,
The troops who had the city condemned,
    Who would soon be slaughtering the people they hated.

The men joined the song (they were excessively loud),
    Tearing their voices with their own grunted drumming,
They had moved beyond confidence, were far beyond proud,
    And this worried Massif: "They'll hear us coming!"

There was no time to change, no time to correct
    (Having already exposed their position),
What the enemy would no longer have to suspect:
    Intelligence gained through our own indiscretion.

An enemy combatant shot out of the snow,
    Aiming his shovel (his target was stricken),
When with a swing and a powerful blow,
    He broke the face of our lead Battle Chicken.

Massif responded, instinctively rapid:
    "Not one among us is green anymore!
Silence the music! Keep calm; even placid!
    And brace yourselves, men - it's time for our war!"

[Gratuitous Links to my Homies - Not Part of the Post Above] [Learn More]

As usual, these will come later because, as usual, I'm late for dinner...