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The Bishops arrive, a fanfare of horns.
Brandishing kourbashes
To knout the little prick.
This contest is inevitable: boy can't win.
Invented by the Mental Mongrels.
Huntsmen in their hauberks,
Shivering boy in rags, his feet shackled
With pig-irons.
Horn blows, contest begins,
Boy does not get very far.
Head numbed with blows,
Mace patterns his face.
Handsome? No.
The winners guffaw, and retire for rape
Before the next contest begins.

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