The shadow foe flows smoothly round the ring;
Languid motion makes his merry dance.
Once outlawed bandit, now self-proclaimed king
Taxes concentration with half a chance.

His flashing eyes betray the cocksure grin
Hidden by his darkened corner's shade.
In the shadows he can play, but never win
Until he takes grip of a bigger blade.

Yet even his big cannon will not sing;
This is here the nature of his game.
Ever elusive, always on the wing,
A fluid target taunting the marksman tame.

Slowly driven to insane isolation,
I cannot lash out at my dark frustration.