On Saturdays, Diana puts on shirts
that go way up to her neck, avoids skirts,
neglects to shave her legs, haunts the Bat Cave.
There, she challenges the bold and the brave
to tests of great skill –button mashing wise.
In every game, she flat-out beats the guys,
though speedster Barry will always blame lag.
Well, Wonder Woman doesn’t like to brag:
she just kicks ass once more for good measure.
Heroes must seize such rare days of leisure––
margaritas the best cure for a funk
(plus Clark Kent sings karaoke when drunk).
Sure, Sunday crime-fighting’s rough hung-over,
but justice is served ––and in heels moreover.
Four figures stood and stopped at the crossroads.
These persons stooped to unburden their loads.
Four perfect strangers hardened by knowledge
that the traveler’s life demands courage.
He spoke first, the Wizard, creaking and gray,
calling up fire with two feet in the grave.
“Friends,” quoth the death-mage, “only let me pass,
and I’ll see that this day shan’t be your last.”
The Alchemist laughed, his teeth full of gold,
cried, “Sir I fear you are by far too bold.
You see this here pack, now cast from my back?
I warn: it will go off, should you attack.”
The others, not versed in matters arcane,
thought best to give heed, or else be insane.
And yet the wind blew, and one fact remained,
that such an impasse could not be sustained.
“It’s foolish,” scoffed the Knight, hand to his sword,
“that Might should fear Cunning, upon my word.”
He drew forth the blade, righteous and shining,
declared, “This order needs realigning!”
The Priest had up ‘til then remained silent,
In wisdom he spake, “Sons, don’t be violent.
You’ll find better odds with trust in the gods,
Over false bluster. Your words are facades.”
Trading glances, the three others advanced,
but then the sky split and held them entranced.
The holy fire struck and turned them to toads.
One figure went and walked from the crossroads.