Vermouth the Warrior
The forest had an eerie enchanted feeling.
His blade was itching to be slashing and reeling.
Vermouth stood his ground in this canopied ceiling.
Hearing the enemy in every whisper and dealing.
His men watched him carefully, at the ready.
There was Battle Axe Henry and Look out Freddy.
He held his blade at slash point, totally steady.
Listening for the enemy, feeling alert and ready.
A rumor filtered through, from whence did it come?
Many men had been felled between today and yesterday’s sun.
He dared not make a mistake, so far the enemy was on the run.
He had to be vigilant and alert, he was his father’s son.
I think it’s over for tonight, his first lieutenant said.
Let’s put the blades away, eat, and retire to bed.
Vermouth could not relax, the adrenaline was running.
Stayed on vigilant alert, until sunrise, when the sun was sunning.
His men were not surprised, for he was a warrior true.
A man who lived to fight, in clouds or sky so blue.
Vermouth picked up his sword and led them to the meadow.
They could hear his warrior’s cry in every valley below.
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