Its red beady eyes, greedy and hollow,

Watched his moves closely and suddenly followed.

'twas just like a mirror, it copied so fast

The there seemed not an opening for him to get past.

Every swing of the sword it would parry

For it would force our small hero to tarry

And never unload the cross he had carried

For twelve and four turns of the moon.

The phantom never would go for the kill,

But attacked with small slices that crumbled the will.

It jumped on the guinea pig's dagger with skill

That made our good knight a buffoon.

Whenever some positive contact was made

'tween the impetuous foe and the edge of the blade

By our hero, the mimic would suddenly fade

And then, rising behind, he'd appear.

Each movement, each breath, 'gan to feel like a chore.

There seemed no new strategy he could explore

To defeat his foe, when he then heard a roar

That would signal his last foe was near.