Kriegspiel

Knight to Queen’s Bishop three. Knight to King’s Bishop six. A long, thoughtful pause Then a bloody melee With all the usual pawns Being slaughtered en passant. The players consent to chop wood Till Black strikes with his Rook And thrusts an Arabian Mate Past the Pale Queen’s tenderloin Once her King had abandoned his castle And found he’d gained no compensation. Sleepers awake from baroque contemplations Plucking G strings to a whiter shade Of whatever fair Caïssa Chooses to wear the day she weds. It’s the way the game is played.