One Final Knight...

Too heavy for a horse,
Encoffined in armor thick enough to turn bullets,
The last of all knights heaves a sigh,
Hefting mace and dirk with slow steel arms,
Like a sad tortoise attacked by rabid hares
He swings in vain at his foes--
Unchivalrous knaves, firing their pistoles
As they mock the lumbering anachronism...
He stands his ground,
Sweating within his massive shell,
Eyes narrowed behind the grim visor,
Until one insolent enemy gets too close---
The dirk strikes, blood spurts,
The mace crushes a stylish, useless helmet,
And the others back away, their musket-balls
Bouncing off the weary warrior's hide;
As the barrage gradually ceases,
With contempt he turns his back on the enemy
And lumbers off into history...