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The Noble

He was a rash man, an insolent fool.
At the drop of a hat, he'd offer a duel.
A butcher of buttons, a man of great skill,
Young blood he'd set flowing, a wolf for the kill.

Whether pauper or prince, rank mattered not.
He'd a life of the sword with blood flowing hot.
Each pass of the blade, each tavern room brawl
Would soon prove to be the young nobleman's fall.

Each legend he'd battle, each hero he'd try
From the early morning to when it fell nigh.
Through his quick duelling, he found a proud name.
His parry, his riposte won honour and fame.

One day the noble did meet his own death:
A parry to early, a thrust to the chest
By another rash man of similar kind,
Challenging legends with honour in mind.