The pawns do naught but marching,
And often do they fall
For little more than hoping
That they’ll become queen after all.
The knights and bishops frolick
In the middle of the war,
Killed quickly by the competent
Or else begin to snore.
The rooks are oh so deadly,
The queen more fatal still
For these are weapons useful
To those of any skill.
But in the end I’m happy
That kingliness fell to me.
For every win I get the credit
And if I lose I mate for free!
The Daily Travesty 