The Game of the Bard

Strumming strings to strike a tone
a lean man stands on stage
with his lips before a microphone.

Grey eyes are barely visible under his navy mane
as dark and strange as his song’s force.
He’s the master of this game.

His rhythm echoed upon the walls and floor;
vocals stressing sensations line for line—
his anger emitting into the song’s course.

Moral rose over time;
fans’ fists raised—hearts in their performer’s hold;
support increased with every rhyme.

By the song’s end havoc’s already begun its goal.
Revolution rises to bring justice to this land;
to bring a due overthrow of leaders so cold.