Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.
Also- read at your own peril, injuries sustained from reading this or any of the origional poems are not my fault.
This is a short parody in the form of a poem where a tribute uses a poem by one of the worst british poets ever to kill off his opponents. Written in the same style as said poets work, obviously. If you really want to enjoy it, I suggest that you get a friend (preferably a rather understanding one so when you want to kill them, they won't mind too much) to read you some of his origional works first. His name's William Topaz McGonagall.
The Victory of Master Rodgers:
'Twas in the year of the twentieth games and on the eighteenth of May
That I was put into a state of dismay
By the arrival at my side
Of an enemy, rather snide.
I faced my opponent knowingly,
Figuring that I could at least die my death heroically.
When a plan- one of great cunning and tom-foolery
Did appear within my mind with such suddenness that my previous nervousness now might seem illusionary.
Might I be allowed to remove my jacket?
I asked permission but did not reckon that it
Would be granted by this man who intended
To leave me hanging dead from a tree, suspended.
Instead, I asked again
May I say some last words before you attempt to sever my brachiocephalic vein?
The answer was now forth-coming
My opponent replied that I may do so, if it should please me- so long as it was not unbecoming.
Thus, I reached within my coat
To find within the necessary quote
That I would read to perhaps save my very life
With an effectiveness far better than any ordinary knife.
The piece that I had decided to read may have been described than less than canonical
But was a short verse by the poet who went by the name of Mc'Gone-a-gale.
This verse I did shout so that anyone whom did hear
Would not to them, me endear.
My opponent did thus proclaim, if thou can invent any torture but this, that- I shall happily endure
Rather than to listen to one more
Stanza of this terrible verse
Indeed, you have broken me with these woeful words spoken with an average vocal frequency of two-hundred hertz.
And so it did follow as these events I record
For, before I could continue a terse voice did inform me that due to my recital, I was much deplored
Stop! Stop- it cried- you have killed the remaining tributes by the sound of your voice alone
And terrified each and every citizen of the Capitol until they were white as a bone.
Thus did end my time in the dreaded arena in which many a tribute had fought against their impending death
So I consider now that is worse for them that they did not bring a book of poetry- else they might not have taken their final breath.
But for me at least, my stay was short
And I too became a Victor, of a sort.
/I hope you survived! Please reveiw!