An Evening With John Fascenda

From distant kingdoms folk beat long
To beam their visage dark and black.
Wrought cages 'round their crowns they bore,
And armor to defend their back.

A pleasing land of tundra numb,
Of dreams before the half-shut eye
Of booty since collected, n'er
For several years, now glorify.

Still beat the feet of one so proud.
Four times the prize had ridden home,
Just to be grabbed and born from thence.
For this the chieftan lord did roam.

The verdant green of pastures lay
Athwart his back and fore his breast.
The missile settled in his grip,
A grimaced face by priests long blessed.

The lines were drawn, the battle raged
And lo, a battered colonnade.
One chieftan fell and carted off
Beneath the tattered flags they made.

Their blood upon the pitch was spilt,
And sweat and tears the trenches filled.
The honored mud from ages past
Laid dripping from their iron will.

Until the hour when bomb was hurled
Through air and space and downy flake,
No man could choose the victor there,
Nor battered pawn their hope forsake.

But once the fell advance was won,
Just one could wear the laurel crown.
The epic contest now complete,
Glist'ning spoils on sprinkled ground.

Disciples gazed, gripped with delight.
Guerdon prize raised above the rest.
With cracking voice the chieftan praised,
"The Forty-Niners are the best!"