One morning, at daybreak, the numbers attacked.

The letters did not stand a chance.

They were highly outnumbered, and finances lacked;

They had nothing but the capital of France.

The numbers sang: "We'll win this war.

Those letters aren't worth a dime.

We, numbers, are superior.

Murder in literature is no crime.

We are the millions, the billions, the best,

The hot 100, the 8, 9, 10,

The top 25 and all the rest,

We're number 1, the highest you can."

The letters had a weak defence.

They were all equal, without pride,

One single letter made no sense

Without some others at its side.

Books full of letters, A to Z,

Were hardly read by anyone.

It's all 'bout numbers, 1, 2, 3,

As those make millions, lots of fun.

The letters formed a union.

They spread the word and drew the line.

Only attention for the top?

Forget it, and we'll all be fine.

"There is no 1 in team.", they spoke:

"Not sales but beauty is our goal.

Numbers are nothing but a joke,

A zero is an empty hole."

The numbers laughed: "What do you say?

You're different signs in every land,

But us, ten digits, every day

The universe does understand."

The letters had one final plea

And the entire A B C

Became a weapon, dangerously:

Atomic Bio Chemistry.

"Remember, one two three and four,

There's ten of you. You understood?

The twenty-six of us can spell

You out of history, for good.

With our Big Brother Capital

We double up, and there is more

With ñ and ç and ø and Å₤Ł

You'll lose this Wordfeud and this war."

A mediator, a monarch,

Ended hostilities, at last,

With one small punctuation mark:

The simple dot could not be passed.