With Orcish delight,
Lob hefts his large blade—
Five or more feet,Â
And magically made.
He charges and swings;
A blood curdling cry,
Erupts from his foe—
Severed legs at the thigh.
The Orc turns and strikes—
And he’s spattered with red,
As another poor sap,
Has just lost his head.
A wicked toothed grin,
As the rest of them run,
The battle is over,
After turn order one.