The Knave

There once was a trooper, perhaps you know his name
Who had for a dueler, a scoundrel most profane
The bully, a horrid knave, had sanctimonious ways
As he lashed out with curt words that hurt others for days

Now our trooper attended to his own affairs
He appeased the rogue, spoke not, lest the knave grow aware
Self-imposed silence governed the trooper`s ways
Yet pummeled he was by words that left him dazed

It happened, one evening, the trooper spoke his mind
He plucked up his courage and spoke with words most unkind
Our hero knew when he decided to speak, he sealed his own doom
For the knave, like a banshee, sang words that left a deep wound

His own wounds our man cared not, for what had he become!
To hear himself speak such smut, hurt his ears and made him glum
It seems our trooper should have kept his trap shut
For when he spoke, he too became a knave, a mirthless muck