Pity Goliath, scarecrow of the Philistines,
Shield-breadth, that has a thousand quaking men.
Baal’s champion, brought thunder on command.
Skin tough as a shark’s, dagger teeth, nine feet tall,
Condemned never to look up to any man
Even his king.
Trotted out like a standard before every battle,
He saved the hides of all the warriors who would wet their pants in secret.
How many times did he answer the call,
“Hey Goliath, front and center!”
Caught in the work-a-day rut of killing,
How many times did he yell carefully rehearsed threats?
Never could he buckle his knees,
Never could anyone see his sword vacillate in his trembling hand.
And that shepherd boy, approaching,
To just inches short of his long shadow, that shepherd boy,
Surely Goliath must have seen the stones picked up,
Surely he must have seen the sling swung in deadly circles,
Surely he must have heard the rock swooshing like Baal’s bad breath,
Surely he had a lifetime of shunting spears and arrows
With a flick of his mighty shield,
A shield that became too heavy to lift.
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