I always lose at chess.
White moves first. I choose black every time.
You would die for your king.
I am ambivalent about my mine.
For some reason I envision him as an elderly
Henry VIII, gouty and incompetent from syphilis
With his queen, a viciously possessive caricature
Of a scheming Anne Boleyn.
I do not meddle with the monarchs.
I much prefer the pawns--idiosyncratic
And delightfully headstrong--the groundlings
Who brawl at a performance of As You Like It.
But while I am playing tag, you are planning treason.
My queen is publicly beheaded, and
Your bishop smiles, gleeful as he muses,
oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Now I shall inherit the earth.
In a checkered courtyard, my beloved knights
Perish in his Inquisition, refusing to recant
A heliocentric theory of existence, in which
Ambition is not a universal law, Machiavelli
Does not call the shots, and there is no king
On this pedestal called Divine Right.
You say I lost. I say life is not about winning.