This is a poem I wrote for english class. It is based, vaguely, off true stories of my battles. I play blood angels. Comments? Concerns? Advice? Its due tomorrow, so anything blaringly wrong, it would be great for you to point this out.
I was playing in the store versus this Dark Eldar dude
Who had these strange ideas and whose language was really crude.
He told me about these crazy "Dice Gods"
And as I called him both crazy and odd,
He explained to me, then, the curse of the dark lance
Where the dice do not function according to chance.
"Statistically", he said, "I should make most of my shots.
However, statistically, the case, that is not".
We played a couple turns until his words were clearly true,
But it didn’t really matter, not from my point of view.
He called out angrily, "Curse you gods of fate!"
And then, of course, he slaughtered me while sipping his Latte.
The blood of my angels splattered, so it goes,
Like that of Sanguineous, though facing different foes.
I was confused however, as to how it could be
That while every roll he made had to be above a three
Instead, 1s and 2s were rolled, most suspiciously.
Not a single six he had that game, and almost only 1s,
Of course the only roll that will never work with any guns.
The game was over, I had lost
Despite my opponents luck.
Time to go, another game,
Im playing Knights? Oh, what the...
Time to trifle today away
Though, hopefully, ill get to hear him say,
"Curse the Dice Gods!" Then ill be ok.
We deploy, somewhat slowly, as the game is 1850.
Unfortunately my army stinks because I was being thrifty.
We first rolled off, with the "tap, tap, tap" of dice,
But strangely we both rolled 4s, causing us to roll twice.
I won, attacked, and quickly closed the gap
Between our forces, nearly making them overlap.
Then was his turn, and he charged in with all his might,
Wielding swords of darkness verse my flaming swords of light.
The outcome, sadly, differed from the fight of Michael the saint,
With the hero angels falling to the darkened knives of hate.
The way the day became was such that I could not win,
While the furtive flames of fear tried to pull my men to sin.
The day was done, my enemies won, my Alamo had failed.
Though angry was I, I wanted to cry, I found a better trail.
As fools will do when things go wrong, I blamed everyone near.
"Curse you, Dice Gods!" I proclaimed, loudly, for all to hear.
Last edited by JAMOB; 05-24-12 at 02:46 AM.