The knight in rusty armour, fists clenched in pain, lies on his back, exposed.
His folfox’d shield upon his breast, the mighty sword Avastin at his side.
Fetched low by the monster, hobbled by the weapons handed him.
Not skilled in aggression, sometimes despair wins.
Grendel roars within and he has no answer.
It should be me on that embattled bed.
My teeth and claws are itching for the fight.
Does it weaken him if this frail damsel, leads the charge to rescue him?
My ferocity transfused would surge victorious through his veins.
But this fight is his alone, Poor Lover.