(A re-post from some years ago and one which owes a debt to Dave Bradley who referenced something like this in a Discussion thread. I have chopped it into little lines for the purists among you. Personally, I see it as prose).
The Dream-Spinner held aloft his prize.
The vanquished fled from the yurt.
Cheku growled his disdain.
Three times Cheku had held aloft
The sacred skull
Three times he had condemned
A man to die.
In Cheku’s day a vanquished poet
Did not walk from the yurt.
Cheku growled again.
There was no passion in poets anymore.