by Nick Gisburne
He bellows at the punishments they give
A giant of a man, enslaved in chains
Abused, he still remembers how to live
Though little of his dignity remains
They dress him in the finery of kings
With nothing but a wooden sword, to fight
A banquet, where his clumsy, savage swings
Are heckled by the gentry, through the night
But in this hand it seems I hold a key
Wherever did I find it? Who can tell?
A twist, a single turn, will set him free
The friend, whose pain, whose fear, I can dispel
We share a glance, a meeting of the eyes
A pact, to kill the devils we despise
