Do not gloat, Rogers

For you have not won our match.

I was always fascinated by the game, even from youth

A gifted, young girl's fancy.

Oh, nothing was more majestic than

the flash of steel

thundering of horses

trumpets playing my victory

Every piece would be played with love and genus;

I would be a god.

But, alas, Rogers, my genus was not unparalleled

And every piece I played, ruined.

You have smelt it, too, haven't you, Rogers?

Blood-stained death, reaking of failure.

Of course you have,

you also are a player of

the game of

War.

So, I leave MY beloved board in

your hands

and I trust you keep my pieces

clean

groomed

prepared

for the inevitable next match.

Please?

Do not gloat, Rogers

I shall return when I'm as polished as my pieces.

When I do, I shall take back my pieces in a game for the masters.

For you have not won our match!