Willful was the warrior born
and now his clothes are bloody, torn
from off his back, but still he groans
a battle cry from a field of bones.
Stout and strong the warrior made
and now his fiercely flashing blade
holds all the strength he does yet save
to keep him from his resting grave.
The enemy cuts his side apart
and yet his soul will not depart
his mortal frame, still on he presses
resisting madly death's caresses.
Determined to not breathe his last
by will alone the pain surpassed
till its sting he feels no more
and howls the lion's feeding roar.
For this battle was he destined
fighting naked, crazed, and dis-intestined
and when the final foe lay dead
he slept at last on earth stained red.