Beginning: Virtue’s End

I started this poem tonight, however, finding an unsatisfactory amount of time with which to finish it, I present a sort of rough draft:

How bravely th’knights ride out to war
upon the field of blood soaked grass
where earth drinks up that red downpour
until the horses, as they pass,
their hooves imprint, bleeding the ground—
or so it seems—man’s life as mud
under the mounted host. They sound
the trump, “away into the flood!”
They charge in desp’rate strait the pigs,
this mockery of man, manmade;
as like to the tall oak are twigs
uncountable. Virtue they paid
to outnumber, and out produce,
Godly created man. So now,
with grunting squeals, the virpigs[1] loose
their hoards, through which the knights then plow.
How quick to die, and quick surround
the battle lusty cavaliers;
The pigs discard their spent in mounds
without morning, nor shedding tears,
and once removed, themselves then throw
upon the wearied warriors.
Unto the feast hungry black crows
descend,

[1]
Pronounced “werepig.” The “were” of werewolf comes from the Latin vir.