Now upon this midnight cheery, as I prepare to repeat my query,
Focused on the quaint and curious Demigod war,
Suddenly, as I muse there comes a thumping,
As of someone gently bumping, bumping at my private door,
I pause for moments, listening for bumping at my private door.
No response, and so ignored.
Ah, distinctly I recall, the last time we met, he took the fall;
Surely our next encounter ends with him upon the floor?
Eagerly I wish for further; this fight should end with more than murder.
From my props I must wonder, which will be the best to plunder
The Demigod’s most prized possession; the Title of the World.
“Pack them all, then shop for more!”
The bump again, more insistent, interrupts focus, persistent,
Moves me reluctantly to approach the door
Which of my companions, sense of privacy abandoned,
Intrudes so late here at my stage room door?
“Come back later,” I plead, leaning against my stage room door.
Silence, bothering me no more.
Long into that silence hearing, awaiting any further interfering,
A full ten minutes I give, anticipating the same sound as before;
But the silence is complete, the bumping does not repeat,
And I am left with my Survival of the Fittest plans still to explore
How to lead the Demigod to disembark upon our shore
Avoid our darkness no more.
Returning to my weapon-packing, my thoughts return to Ken-attacking,
And how to recruit more successfully than before.
“Surely,” say I, “surely he wants to leave the crowd in awe for once;
What better way to seal his reign as Champion of the World
Just before I end it and seal him out forevermore?”
Here comes the bumping once more.
Now across the room I’m stomping, toward the door my boots are clomping,
A piece of my mind I’ll give when I open this door.
And then I saw The Omen, perched outside my room, frozen,
Blonde of hair, but feathers black as the shadows on the floor.
In she hopped, uninvited, preening herself on my chamber floor,
Strange bird I’ve dealt with before.
See this ebony bird’s history and mine, it is no mystery,
We’ve shed enough of one another’s gore.
“Why must I be still ill-fated to return to battle with you hated two,
You, the Omen, and the Arsonist, as if repeating some awful chore?
I’m forced to share the stage with one or both of you four weeks out of four.
Quoth the Omen “You’re a bore.”
Its eyes shine with a piercing light, as if ready for another fight,
A trespass into le combat du jour.
Once again by her I'm haunted, when single combats' what I wanted.
I'm cursed to dance with Seb or her forevermore.
Being locked in tedious routine I abhor.
Quoth the Omen, "You're a bore."
"A warning, Showman," it seems to say, "your stagnation is underway."
Of course I've heard all this before.
Despite my career of tireless endeavor, the Elites are resolved to never
Acknowledge the influence of our lore.
They reject the opportunity to build rapport
With more than media whores.
It's critical indictment given twice it decides Rett's head would make a nice
Perch, and with a flutter leaves the floor.
Somehow restraining the urge to maim, the feline simply shouts his name,
And makes up his positronic mind to endure.
I, however, this insult will I not endure
Though she matches my decor.
"Out," I shout, "or you will suffer, become my newest pillow stuffer."
If she hears me she does not respond to my adjure.
"Omen I tire of your presence, and your rejection of my grievance,
I no longer have the palette to swallow your scorn."
Silently it stares back, it's rebuff once again only torn
When it quotes, "You are a bore."
In my hand, until now I'd all but forgot, one of many blades of silver wrought,
Sails forward from my fingertips before
I can restrain my own violence. Rett squawks with demicadence,
Then with laser eyes turns the knife to vapor.
A misshapen slag clanks to the wooden floor.
The Omen moves nevermore.
Now from my purpose distracted, the concentration I had crafted
Gone suddenly like Konrad's shot at hardcore.
Rather than preparing for new adventure, I'm must deal with this calenture:
A bird with the face of Lucy that chooses to ignore
My pleas for her to make her hastiest departure.
Am I plagued forevermore?
Quoth the Omen, "You're a bore."
.