OT: Gaming Poetry

I found this poem ages ago and just dug it up while unpacking some
gaming 
stuff.	I can't remember the web site to give proper credit, but the 
wemaster, according to the prontout I havem, couldn't recall the
original 
author, so it's anonymous by now.  enjoy.

3B^2

Advice to a British Lead Soldier
by Flashdout Kasting

If yer painted with oils and washed with a brush,
If yer de-tail's all crisp and yer parting-line's flush,
Remember it don't mean a tittle or tush
To the Man Who Writes The Rules.
If yer coat's painted red when it ought to be blue,
An yer 'at's an off-color, yer skin's a sick hue,
It don't matter a bit 'ow some fool painted you,
For you lives and you dies by The Rules.

If yer paint is all chinky from years o' hard use,
An yer bayonet's gone an one arm's hangin loose,
Yer as good as the next 'un an' just as much use,
To the Man Who Writes The Rules.

Oh he knows all the hist'ry, he thinks an' he reads,
And what 'e don't know 'e can fake if he needs,
'E can tell you the pace of men, camels or steeds,
An' the 2D morale O' the mules.
He's a Solomon wise with a sceptre an' crown,
He's historian. mathematician and clown,
An' he don't care a whit (which is good!) for renown.
He's The Man Who Writes The Rules.

If yer lined with a marker, or lined with a pen,
Painted double-ought sable or camel-hair ten,
It's one an' the same when the dice roll again,
For you lives an' you dies by The Rules.

If yer base is magnetic, or coinage, or card,
If yer pose is high port, or reloading, or guard,
If yer bough by the casting or bought by the yard,
It don't mean a toss if yer plastic or hard
To The Man Who Writes The Rules.

On styrofoam hill or vermiculite plain,
When the tape-measures whire and the dice roll again,
An' the pizza-smell's thick, so's to rattle yer brain,
It's The Rules that permit, an' The Rules that restrain,
And you lives and you dies by The Rules.

For the painter's a grind and the gamer's a plod;
The collector, 'e's just an obsessive old sod,
But I tell you, 'e's bloody well near to a God,
Is The Man Who Writes The Rules.

Oh, The Rules they are fresh, or The Rules, they are stale,
An' they favour the dusky or favour the pale,
An' they're overly broad or 'ave too much detail,
An' they don't know the difference 'twixt Congreve or Hale,
An' they finish too quick or they plod on too long,
An' they figure the spears or machine-guns too strong,
An' their cavalry movement is simply all wrong,
But when the dice sing o' their rattley song
It's all just the prattle of fools.
For you lives and you dies
Mind, you lives and yo8u dies
Yes, you lives and you dies
By The Rules.

_________________________________________________________________