Game

The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers

Sneered languidly over his quail.

Then my heart flew up and laboured,

And I burst from my own holding

And hurled myself forward.

With straight blows I beat upon him,

Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him.

But my weapon slithered over his polished surface,

And I recoiled upon myself,

Panting.