Brotherly Straits

They call hacks, understandably
distraught when they catch glimpse

of the new plumber brothers, killer tunic
plus fairy, arcane rune of imperceivable

synergy squeezing the juice out of every
cooldown. Rubbing their rumps, sore

losers flail their transparent rulebooks,
sputtering out unimaginative analogies of

hermits and shells, horses and knights, all
sorts of well-tried combos whose fairness

derives from never switching shoes, a trifle
unbecoming of champions. Should it stink

for the sloth-reflexive, for the single sperm
that carries the family name, for the brute

mannered or staccato'd speaker, suppose
it stinks. Our way was long overwrought

with taunts, glares, and occasional threats
of fratricide, overcome by several hundred

miles or so. Now at the dawn of our hacked
existence, we let lean on one another, as

brothers have and ought, and if they think
us formidable now, probably best not to let

them know we have only just begun our part,
victories beyond reckoning are still in store.