Certainly not my best poem, as the words were difficult to rhyme, but here goes.

Battered and black,
the second prince attacks,
the struggle of the pack,
carries soldiers across the battle,
strikes the sword, and rattles.
Center your spies
and count your allies
battle threatens, an endless tie,
takes the weary from their homes,
sentenced by the prince's own.
Threaten and bleed
with princely greed,
a war without honor, is a thief's deed.
Treachery grows, the rogue knows,
tomorrow, deceit in the shadows.
A knife to the throat,
a signed note
written in black, contains the quote,
"I hereby grant my second son
my place to the throne of the kingdom."
But the roguish bandit pack
did not look back,
as they ran from the deadly attack.
And first son Pious took up the chase,
to challenge his brother, face to face.
In a deadly blow
that shook sir Pious' bow,
he struck his brother with an arrow.
It pierced his brother's heart and took with it
the gall from his brother's deceit.
The letter sired
the flickering fire,
and prince Pious then retired
to his place at his father's side,
as the battle of the throne slowly died.
At his father's behest,
he take his king's request,
to the throne, an early wrest.
In the palace wrought in stone,
the righteous Pious took the throne.
Now the courtly minstrels sing,
ballads of the newly king,
and the righteousness
of the regaled prince,
the tale of the rite of sir Pious.