The Battle of Bureau
This is the tale of how a man at a desk
Brought a merry band of warriors in their prime to rest,
Strong men and women who lived by the sword,
But had forsaken weapons to live without war,
To journey the land with anticipation, answering to no lord,
Passing up a comfortable life for the joy of the poor.
They made their way over land and sea,
Wearing their soles and sleeping under trees.
With relentless pace these warriors marched on,
And nothing could stop them, for their souls were too strong.
They crested a hill and looked upon a new land,
The Nation of Bureau with rivers and sand,
Mountains and forests thick with thorns,
Arduous terrain, but still they marched on.
They approached the bridge and there sat a man,
Sickly and weak; a man with no tan,
Astride a swivelling chair and defended by a desk
Piled high with papers; those piles were not fresh:
They had lain there for ages,
To grow without check.
Behind his computer, his eyes had no light,
No imagination, no glory,
His life had seen no fight.
“Allow us to pass,” one warrior did proclaim,
“We come to do good, to live in God’s name!”
He explained their ambitions,
Their hopes, and their fears,
Their long, long journey,
(Several warriors were brought to tears).
And at that moment the clerk revealed his hand,
With one word, to stop them where they did stand.
“No,”
He said, and went on to reveal:
This I cannot allow; my rules are made of steel.”
“But why is there a bridge?” The warrior did ask,
“If not for crossing, what is its task?”
The clerk replied “To that I cannot speak,
But I will allow, if you wish, the chance to peek,
Into my computer, my papers, and books,
You will see immediately, if you care to look,
That this thing is impossible: it grates at my bones,
And I know what I would find if I should open my tomes:
That you people are worthless,
You have no jobs and no homes.”
“But we live with a purpose,” the warrior did say,
“We have many skills, we bring joy every day.
You needn't lift a finger,” he said to the clerk,
“Only say ‘Yes,’ then go on with your work.”
“No.”
The clerk looked down his thin nose
At those happy, weathered faces, arms, fingers, and toes.
Delinquent children, he considered them to be,
Though they were older and wiser, more experienced than he.
They argued for hours, though he never raised his voice,
He simply looked on in boredom; he would not change his choice.
This is the feeling of being Bruce Banner,
The warrior thought as he controlled his manners,
Breathing deeply, and trying to think,
As the insides of his eyes filled with green ink.
“Many things of this world I do know,
And one of those, many times has been shown,
That the pen is a mighty weapon,
More formidable than my own.
You wield a great power, sir clerk,” he did say,
“But you use it for evil, not good, in this way.
You were given a mandate,
To grease the cogs of society,
But it fills me with hate,
It drives me to impiety,
That you placed three cogs, where just one was needed,
Thus securing your job, though the grease went unheeded.
The entropy of your system has increased with fervour,
Now it creates only heat, it turns no further.
That weapon is yours, though you do not control it.
The written word owns you, directs you, you know it.
You feed your soul to a computer
That does not enhance,
It steals your life
So you’ll never sing or dance.
You have not the power,
to wield such a thing,
Strong thoughts make you cower,
Strong words make you sting.
You stand for nothing,
You paper-pushing jerk!”
He kept panting and puffing,
And eyeing the clerk.
The clerk looked over his shoulder,
Hoping for another customer to disappoint,
But the warrior grew bolder,
And with his finger he did point.
“What if I took these hands,
And placed them on your throat?
We could take your lands, you weak man,
And your cattle, and goats!”
At this the clerk laughed,
And sneered with derision,
“The terrain of my country
Has clouded your vision.
Behind every mountain there is another like me,
We’re in every valley, on every hill, even at sea.
My brothers will defeat you, you relic of the past,
Our time is now; your time has passed.”
And that’s how their journey was ended by a snivelling little shit.
Their strength and their purpose mattered not one bit.
