I met a chess
piece on the road
And much said he and I.
‘Your moves are weak,’ he said
in pique,
‘Your ideas stale and dry;
Your vision’s dim,’ according
to him,
‘What have you? One big stye?’‘My games are lost at
little cost,
I learn from each debacle,
My progress slow, but it will show
And warm your every cockle.
A player can be
born to play
Filled with brilliance,
But some must plod—give me a nod—
Through their experience.’
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