Strewn about the green
Completely unprepared for the unlikely
The little neo mort, paving the way
For the uncoming of the Southern warriors.
In jerseys of green and black,
Warriors fight on fields like mine
Forever and ever with every new sun.
If I sit here in my plastic throne
Watching the pastoral scene of the neo mort
As they unbecome all the glory that they were once,
I shall find that not one warrior
Shall ever pass on my petty field
Because the system will not let them exist.
Though warriors fight the world over,
Here we are resigned to watch light shows.