Ode to the players
Rivals of the throne
ardent hands of the lone
rely so shy on the cowy crown
queenside quick begets the flesh
the scruple scuak of mate
is every players fate
love is to acknow that rate
is simply time too late
passing with the parsing paste
pure truth in loosing lies
when victory in end dies
dig this poems war of cry!
it si the bay of goodbye!
Better have a narrow tie
then give the game a nai
The player is of life self a spy
In the end so weary dry,
asking why and why and why?!!
Odd Vidar Bakkejord