The Sword is Mightier than the Pen

[Quincunx]

Bulwer Lytton (long gone to his final reward)

Proclaimed the Pen mightier, sir, than the Sword.

Ever since then, whenever a Poet drops by,

We hear him reiterate Lytton’s old lie.

 

Democritus, long before Lytton, averred

That any old action beats any old word;

So Poets say quickly they spoke but in jest

When challenged to put Lytton’s mot to the test.

 

With, alas, one exception. A Poet I knew

Was silly enough to think Lytton spoke true.

Of eau de vie forte he drank quite a store,

Then challenged a Swordsman to combat a mort.

 

While the Swordsman was yet in a daze from surprise,

The Poet fired gallons of ink in his eyes,

Backed up by barrages of sonnets; rondels;

Ballades; chants royals; triolets; villanelles.

 

The trochees and dactyls about him exploded

So fast that the Swordsman was quite incommoded.

He was epigrammed, similied, punned, metaphored,

Until with recluctance he unsheated his sword

 

And lopped off the head of that Rhymer of Rhymes,

Then returned to perusing the sports in the Times.

The dying head sighed, “It may be now and then

That the edge of the sword has an edge on the pen.”

 

Dear Poets, when Swordsmen drop over to play,

It’s wise to say, “Sorry--I’m out for the day.”

(And will be, till foxes lie down with the hens,

And will be, till smiths hammer swords into pens.)

[Peredhil]

This is marvelously funny.

[Rhapsody]

Lol, clever and funny.

 

The trochees and dactyls about him exploded

So fast that the Swordsman was quite incommoded.

I feel that way sometimes!