Crushed beneath the eight
Sport mangled his back
Now on his haunted portrait
Only the two eyes move
And how he paints spits
Onto the sculptures
The brush in his teeth
Like a navvy’s blade
The tiny grey golems
Die-cast deadlocked
Like his own stiff mass
Sporting rocks bows guns
Carved into figured warcries
Made solely and soulless for
Dice casting and chance
Play and the game of war
In their frozen red palms
Bombs are held that cannot be
Fumbled, but still fingers
Play with the catch
So in his stillness
He commits colour
Paint to the wargames
No longer playing but wagering
All to the sporting life
And the art of war
