Upon the ruby studded ground
Men faced each other, fat and round
Each one standing, all like drones
Never to touch the precious stones
They march toward each other through the plains
A battle ensues and one remains
One man marches through the dead
And places a crown upon his head
Soon, only one army is left alive

I ask you, what is being described?

A game Of Checkers

Posted by Wallace North on 2006-02-23 08:55:52