Battler.

[BR Joe]

If a pen on paper is honin wordsmith weaponry,
Then I'm a ronin throwin slashes on page, start dead reckoning;
Death's been beckoning, calling like time to collect my soul,
Since hourglass sand's stopped falling, hells bells have not ceased to toll;
My spirit won't ever hear it, old heart beats to it's own drum,
I seared a path clear up to here where I came from. Tell them,
Don't go place claims on my name, not for depths nor Nirvana
There's no sleep for the wicked, so I'll rest when I wanna;
I ask, why worry your head about when warrior's dead,
If alive you dread being bled, think: 'what do I fear more?' instead:
Corporeal sticks and stones, which cut flesh and break bones? That or,
Surreal plasma blast that trash thoughts to ash? Ha, now what's the matter?
I threaten all fronts but don't think to attack from the rear,
Beasts stay on the hunt for runts and will sense when one is near.
A versed hearse, all I'm spilling is red on lined battlegrounds,
My bloodthirst for killing is fed on hearing death rattle sounds.


http://artofbattling.com/forum/showt...ull=1#post4161
http://artofbattling.com/forum/showt...ull=1#post4170