by Nick Gisburne
He lunges into legend with his axe
He’s buffed and brawny, muscles pumped and primed
The hero’s hair is slick with styling wax
And every thrust magnificently timed
The ladies swoon and flock to see him fight
His loin cloth fills a wench’s wettest dream
Today it seems that something isn’t right
He’s out of breath and running out of steam
Back home, he sips his cocoa, laced with gin
And polishes his ‘Best Marauder’ prize
He longs for one more fight and one less chin
And wonders when he’ll start to fossilise
His eighty-second year has fallen flat
No pussy now for Derek, just a cat
