The Way of the Wood Pusher

There's a game known as Chess that I learned as a lad But in spite of the passage of time I'm still bad. I can not see ahead seven moves like some do; If you say, "Bobby Fischer" I'll just come back with, "Who?" I speak French when I must, as in terms like, "J'adoube," But it's all a charade, for I think like a boob. I don't know who invented this mind-wasting sport, But I'm sure many law books would deem it a tort. You can find "Chess For Dummies" on shelves in bookstores, And I once tried to read it, eliciting snores. See, I'm trapped in the middle, 'twixt Firsties and Plebes; It is called Mediocre, and it ranks me with Dweebs. But this thing's got me hooked; I just can't walk away; It's a weird fascination that's always in play. I don't care if you trounce me in ten moves or less When I trot out my Queen in a desperate press. My intent is to smash you like ANVIL on bone, But it's not very often that I'm in the zone. And I have other schemes that I'm willing to try; GARIBALDI's the Gambit that might make you cry. When I'm lazy I mimic your opening game; MIRROR MOVES, my descriptive, alliterative name. Metaphors just delight me as labels for ploys To deprive my opponents of all of their joys. If I were only equally good with my men I could teach all of you a sore lesson, and then I would not have to channel my fear of defeat Into tirades like these that sound like a goat's bleat.