Local Champion
In the neighborhood, some conqueror born,
Another color blending with fawn:
On his forehead, a sitting half horn.
In the flesh of the rest, a thorn
But among them just brightly shone!
All his moves of leniency shorn…
The others offering only the chances to mourn.
All these, after their True Champion was gone…
Nothing else Local Champions fully trust,
Their ungovernable hands of iron, a must.
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