Zooing Up a Storm

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

Image:

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

#atozchallenge

#napowrimo

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