Another epic pre-battle poem?

Ah, that is the question. To convert, perchance to pervert. There's the rub. Whether 'tis nobler in the hind to puree Yamsters, or to sniff underarms in a sea of inanity, and by opposing them, offend them. To creep upon, and perchance to cream, the manifold marching lumps in one fell smite. Alas poor Stoogita, I knew her well. But she fell and took her minions with her. Dark it is in this cavern of redoubt. But there shall be light at the end of the teraflop. And I have a dream. A dream, I say. That one day all minions will rise up, Fluffin skins stretched into gossamer sails atop cybermasts, as they swoop across the bitland sea gathering loosed points. The time is nigh, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Of pointless queries, lame answers, of cabbages and rodents.