The Farm Boy's Tale

PROLOGUE

The stale echo of a distant fife

Draped the men with a shady strife.

As the sharp gasp of Man’s final breath,

The drummers’ strokes sounded of Death.

Men of the fields aligned in a row,

Desperate their orders not to forgo.

At the fore of their ranks, a crimson wall—

Cardinal soldiers in a blood-hued squall.

The British marched for stringent oppression—

The rebels for potential accession.

Men of courage and men of fears,

Men of honor and men of tears,

All alike on the vanguard they amassed

To brave the Hanover king unsurpassed.

STORY OF JAMES

Amidst those pursuing independence

And gaping at the Britons’ transcendence,

A farm boy by the name of James                                                       

Prayed for freedom from Britain’s flames.

In the moments preceding the release

Of the battle was waved the Golden Fleece,

And her glorious stripes rose and fell,

Beamed like the ring of Liberty’s bell.

She danced with the wind aloft her post,

Drawing James’ eye and heart innermost.

While others cowered before the king’s manor,

James found faith in America’s banner.

Each side marched till a breadth be between them.

Their garbs announcing their opposite stem.

The call came for James to make ready,

Firmly at breast, his gun held steady.

When told to take aim,

He prepared for maim.

The order rang “fire,”

His heart felt of brier.

From the barrel he watched his bullet fly

And find result in one enemy’s eye.

As his target fell to his knees, James shook

And cringed at how little effort it took

To end the life of another man.

The battle for James finally began.

An image of his home caressed his soul,

And kept him clinging to his kingdom’s goal.

Hurriedly he groped with his musket

Urgently attempting to reload it.

Upon completion, he raised his sight

Just in time to spot a bullet in flight.

No time had he for action or thought

Before the bullet his breast had caught.

Into a heap of limbs he collapsed

As into his final rest he lapsed.

His eyes floated to the flag, beating—

The world, blurred and faded, was fleeting.

From his consciousness departed his life

Like the stale echo of the distant fife.

STORY OF DEATH

Dancing shadows announced his arrival.

His stench of decay consumed his rival.

Wicked crackles spilled from his Cheshire grin,

As he surveyed his prey, waiting to begin.

Infamy leaked from his jagged teeth,

The first bullets forming his vile wreath.

One he directed to an English man’s eyes;

One was deflected by a divine disguise.

While a bullet was shot with great precision,

Death seized his chance for lethal incision.

A weak young farm boy would be his victim,

And in the boy’s chest did he make his dictum.

From James’ quivering mind, Death drew his pride,

And he watched with pleasure as the young boy died.

Convulsions of howling laughter erupted

From Death’s most internal soul long corrupted.

He looked to the sky in contemptuous conquest,

But shriveled in the presence of the Son’s bold crest.

Unable to budge, his eyes met a sight:

James in God’s Kingdom, the Lord’s faithful knight.

STORY OF A FLY

Hushed was the field, scarce a noise could be heard.

Naught but a single fly in the field stirred.

His trilling buzz fluttered throughout the heath

As he found respite in a dead man’s sheath.

His brethren had rejoiced in their ample feast

But left the field once all the meat had been fleeced.

This sole fly remained, scavenging the field for scraps

But fatigue became him, and into sleep he lapsed.

Upon James’ lifeless bones,

The worn fly fell like stones.

Together the two late were cast

Into the dead hand of the past.