No Mutants Allowed

It falls to me to wield the bow and bend its limbs,

Though in the act of death my arrow far excels it;

For if to slay the foeman marks a weapon’s rank,

What can surpass that one which pierces through him?

More dreaded by the dauntless foe

Than any other warlike blow,

Come the wooden shafts which are

Shot with bows that send them far.

They fell his ranks, line after line,

And shower them with death divine.

Piercing through the shield and mail,

They cause the breath of life to fail.