Hail, hail the Championess of the French,
Who stood up defiantly when others were seated,
Whose thirst for victory and glory none could quench,
Lest her enemies and oppressors were defeated--
She, amidst a war that lasted a hundred years
Did resolve to save her struggling people,
Even as her country, under a quantum king,
Quarreled in a conflict birthing fears
That left that nation so weak and feeble,
France quickly became a slave, an underling!

Apparitions told this young intrepid Enyo,
Her destiny to free France from Northern tyranny,
The Maid of Orleans against her foe,
What a grand, thunderous battle that would be--
And the Siege, the Siege-- how noble the goal:
To restore a king to France who was sane,
To restore to the motherland what she had lost,
What she had suffered in morale and in soul,
What she had failed to tactically gain,
The hearts of the Masses amidst sinful frost!

With the courage of a furious lioness,
The Maid led a fearless charge,
To the English cities, she was a giantess,
Of power and vengeance, a threat at large--
Dwarfed were they by her ceaseless campaign,
Terrified too, for defying womankind,
Yet her heart was stronger than that of most men,
And thus crowned would she be in a just reign--
As a vigilant angel, she would find,
And free the French Daniels from an English den!

Treacherous lions did not matter to Joan,
For she held by her last name all the innocent,
Against the coming Flood, against the lies of Man,
Priceless were they compared to her short life spent--
Soon the ambush came, and right after France awakened,
As a reborn nation with its cities busily bustling,
English Catholics declared the Maid a fraud and a traitor;
“For the good always suffer at the hands of those who sinned”
So said the wise friar, even as the accusers went on hustling,
Anxious at the trial leading to her death later…

The Championess was but a flicker in the darkness,
And as she burned at the stake, punished for doing good,
The fiery pillar led her soul away from that malice,
That charred her body until only ashes stood;
But the great Joan, a savior, a martyr, and a saint,
A rebel, so young, armor shielding her,
Died a heroine, a woman of moral virginity,
Revived France while she was unconscious and faint,
And caused in French hearts a quake and a stir,
Even after her crucifixion-- may Jove have pity!

Throughout the ages, the Championess shines bright,
A beacon to women everywhere, the epitome of temerity,
Now she has faded into legend, a phantom, a light,
Like the heavenly figures that first filled her with vitality;
Thus, let women follow her footsteps, and wear over their hearts,
A metal armor brazen-- let them too sharpen their minds,
Like Joan sharpened her sword, and let them also shield
Themselves against devious men and their courting arts,
So they avoid their bloody rapiers from their behinds,
And rise defending their bodies, their mouths unsealed!

Let them develop fiery souls, and challenge the norm,
So that they can fight for freedom and be hailed like Joan,
So they can clear the land of an imperial snowstorm,
With their flaming tongues- they cannot do it alone;
One day we might just see the rise of another Championess,
Who shall defend the Masses from death and devastation,
If, Jove willing, her and her apparitions cross paths once more,
And so then will the Maid rise and appear like an oasis,
In a desert or Antarctica of hopelessness and decimation,
Reborn as an Arc-angel, a protector of the poor!