Buttery Charge

“The trumpet blew,” beneath it read, “and the leader was attacked.”
Nothing we didn’t know.
Sadly, the attacking force had been puny.
It was not luck our leader lived.
How we longed for his disposal.
Or at least for him to be deposed.
In fact, the attackers were armed with but butterknives. Also butter.
A charge was blown and executed, but its clarion faltered with a blat, for the trumpeter’s fingers had grown slippery in the buttered heat, and he’d lost his grip.
The butterknives flashed and flew. There was blood, too.
We were justified in firing into the flashy fucking rain of buttery knives we think.
They were coming at us and we just just… well, one does…
Many slain to keep the peace. Or was it just to keep the leader in power?
Could be we should have stood aside and let them buttery knife him to death.


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