Back in the days of old,
When lore was just that-lore,
In a street filed with grime and gore,
There stood four mighty warriors.

The first one named Disease,
Sat on a stallion ghastly green-and-gray.
He was for that which whittles away.
A true bane of the human race

Next to him stood a sleek, jet-black colt,
on which rode the lord of starvation.
He put to slaughter many a man, many a nation.
He was the one they called Famine.

Standing next in line, who but War himself
With a ghoul-like red and black steed.
The epitome of friend turning on friend indeed.
What else but would you call a fight between one another?

Last in line, a pale, stark-white horse,
Death rode upon with unholy grace.
A gristly skeleton with a gruesome smile on his face.
No one has yet escaped his clutches.

On the other side of the alley stood us;
Humanity in its entirety, we were united,
But all of us in illusion, we were blighted.
Yet we prepared to fight the four in front of us.

War laughed and turned us against each other
While Disease sniped us in hordes, or by one.
Famine starved us until they won.
While Death grinned, pulling us into his fearsome embrace.
Oh, if only could you see that greatest warrior’s face.
And then I smiled and walked with him, keeping apace.
Oh, if then only could you see Death’s face.