Monarch
Eyes alight
Nostrals flare
Stands upon his hill
Throws back his crown
Roars aloud
Come take me if you will.
For he is king of all he sees
He'll take you in a rut
I doubt you'll win, but if you do
It's yours, good luck.
Two battle axe's upon his head
Covered with deadly tines
Thrashes them on the ground
To intimidate the foe.
The advantage, it's his
He holds the higher ground
A mighty charge, antlers lock
The foe, he is to weak.
He backs away, again a charge
He cannot take the hill
Slips away, head dipped in shame
This year, there will be no heir.
Upon the hill the monarch roars
To signal the others retreat
Then wallows on the ground
In the urine of his-self.
The Hinds come to oestrus
He mounts them one by one
For he is king, his line is safe
The Hinds will bear his sons.
February 2018
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