When sparring mid-clan does commence,
The issues may make little sense.
Still, swords will be drawn
And toes stepped upon,
As players step up, take offense.
The natives grow restless to boot.
Still clueless, they arm, follow suit.
So cagey, they climb.
Opinions they chime,
Though none of the facts do compute.
An argument won may be lost,
If anyone measures the cost.
The top of the heap
Has yet cause to weep,
When everyone feels double-crossed.
c2017 by Linda Ann Nickerson
Adapted by this user from vintage artwork.
This poem was posted in response to these prompts:
April A to Z Blog Challenge
National Poetry Writing Month / NaPoWriMo