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.
