Welcome to the World of Bad Poetry.

For those who have never seen bad poetry before, you're not going to see it here. Hence, the title is somewhat of a misnomer. I apologise. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a series of atrocious lines that do not even deserve the title of poetry. To presume it to be poetry would be grossly unimaginable. This also happens to be Wing's Bday Post. Happy Bday Wing.
***
Esc stared steadily at King Wing, or at least, as steadily as he could stare with a pair of milky blind eyes. “Prophecies, my lord, are the playthings of Gods. They are wholly out of our control, and are not readily available at a moment’s bidding. They come and go as they choose. This is the concept that few people in the world actually grasp, that one cannot manipulate prophecies anymore than they can change what is destined. The importance and value of prophecies cannot be overemphasised. They are not to be thrown about carelessly and irresponsibly, nor misused by the people who have been entrusted with it. But…I think I remember a handy prophecy that I made not too long ago. Let me go search it. I think I chucked the hardcopy down the drain or something.”

Esc closed his eyes in concentration, even as random mutterings issued from his mouth as he sourced for the correct prophecy.
“Searching archives…Error 404. File Not Found.”
“Wth. Try again. Try downloading from seer.net”
“Connecting…”
“Connection lost.”
“Reconnecting…”
“Downloading file…download complete. Opening file…”
“Play.”

In a harsh, commanding voice, Esc spoke, “Connecting…”
He paused. Clearing his throat, he spoke in an embarrassed voice, “I’m sorry, the media file appears to have been corrupted. Bear with the poor sound quality.” He continued.

As Prophecised by Esc:

Connecting…
Pinging 32 players…

One Ping for the stalwart patriot born to fly,
One for the fighter lone.
One for the traitor sly,
One for the enigma within walls of stone.
One for the faithful servant who never asked why,
One for the One with seeds of kingship sown.
And One for the miscellaneous guy.

Two for the rulers on their broken thrones.
Two for the masters spry,
Two for the foreigners trapped in the war zone.
And Two for the overlords made to vie,

Three for the spies made known.
Three for the insurgents in D’munds Aplie,

Four for the champions with blades honed.
Six for the tragic lovers doomed to cry,
And Hundreds for the warrior cloned.

In the Land of Sixan where the Rules apply.
One Wing to rule them all, One Wing to find them,
One Wing to bring them all and in the end mind them
In the Land of Sixan where the Rules apply.

Disclaimer applies too. Hundreds of warriors are counted as one player, so total 32 players for convenience’s sake.

Esc stopped. His voice was no longer forceful, nor resonant. Wretchedly, he spoke, “Ahh. I suck at poetry. I give up. Prophecies shall be in prose from now on.”

What Rules?
Rulers, of course.