The King is Dead

A timeless scene--Man versus beast--unfolds. Majestically the wapiti steps forth– Its frosted tines reflect a crown of gold; Its rippling muscles sport a robe of worth. Formidably, its hooves crash down on limbs– Which snap to bits as if they were mere twigs. Its antlers scarred through battles sparred with vim. Its snout spews out smoke-breath, like beasts of myths. And then the stately elk stands staunch and tall And towards the heavens hefts its highborn head And bellows forth a belting bugle call– Like trumpets that foretaste a fateful end. Among the stumps that stand her in good stead, The hunter’s thunder cracks. The king drops dead.