Fight For Truth And Justice
© Surazeus
2018 10 22
The boy in muddy sneakers and torn jeans
stands on the steep river shore in the Bronx
among rusted cars and heaps of old trash,
watching trucks rumble on the metal bridge
from the furniture factory with smoke stacks,
and waves the long blue stick, making buzz sounds.
"I think I would rather be Luke Skywalker
to save Princess Leia from cruel Darth Vader,
than cynical Han Solo with his blaster,
because I want to learn Way of the Jedi,
dedicated to fight for truth and justice
with the noble light saber, using the Force."
Emerging from woods beyond trash-strewn park,
twelve boys belonging to the White Dogs Gang,
who wear leather jackets and factory boots,
swarm the boy with mocking sneers of contempt,
laughing as they shout, "Are you Luke Skywalker,
waving your stupid light saber around?"
Defending himself against dumb stormtroopers,
the boy swings the blue-painted stick at arms
that reach out and snatch the stick from his hand,
then someone breaks the stick over his knee
as others shove him back and forth with laughter,
till someone smacks him hard upside his head.
Falling to his knees, stunned by the hard blow,
the boy clutches his head as blood flows down,
then he curls to protect his face and stomach
as they kick him with their hard factory boots
for what seems like eternity of pain,
then they walk away, calling him foul names.
Gasping for breath, the boy crawls to the river
where he washes blood and mud off his face,
so he stumbles through streets of factories,
ears ringing and head throbbing from the pain,
then lies in bed when he arrives at home,
tumbling down forever in bleak abyss.
Rising before dawn, he goes to the kitchen
where he drinks orange juice and finds the black gun
his father keeps above the humming fridge,
and after loading it he steps outside
and strides back to his secret hideaway
far beyond the school where he is enrolled.
The boy in muddy sneakers and torn jeans
sits on the steep river shore in the Bronx
among rusted cars and heaps of old trash,
watching trucks rumble on the metal bridge
from the furniture factory with smoke stacks,
and fingers the gun, heavy in his hand.
Emerging from woods beyond trash-strewn park,
twelve boys belonging to the White Dogs Gang,
who wear leather jackets and factory boots,
swarm the boy with mocking sneers of contempt,
laughing as they shout, "Why did you come back,
Luke Skywalker, to save the pretty girl?"
Trembling as he stands to face the gang leader,
heart beating fierce from terror of strange courage,
the boy exclaims, "In some dire situations
the blaster works better than the light saber,"
then aims the gun and shoots him in the head,
smirking as the bullet blows out his brains.
The leader of the White Dogs Gang collapses
as blood from his head splatters all their faces,
then the boy aims the gun to fire again,
but they turn and run back into the woods,
so he stares at mangled face of the bully
who lies twisted by pile of magazines.
After walking back home he hides the gun
above the humming fridge, eats toasted bread,
sits in his dark room at the broken desk,
staring out the window at busy roads,
and grins, "I want to work as a policeman,"
then walks to school and sits in science class.
© Surazeus
2018 10 22
The boy in muddy sneakers and torn jeans
stands on the steep river shore in the Bronx
among rusted cars and heaps of old trash,
watching trucks rumble on the metal bridge
from the furniture factory with smoke stacks,
and waves the long blue stick, making buzz sounds.
"I think I would rather be Luke Skywalker
to save Princess Leia from cruel Darth Vader,
than cynical Han Solo with his blaster,
because I want to learn Way of the Jedi,
dedicated to fight for truth and justice
with the noble light saber, using the Force."
Emerging from woods beyond trash-strewn park,
twelve boys belonging to the White Dogs Gang,
who wear leather jackets and factory boots,
swarm the boy with mocking sneers of contempt,
laughing as they shout, "Are you Luke Skywalker,
waving your stupid light saber around?"
Defending himself against dumb stormtroopers,
the boy swings the blue-painted stick at arms
that reach out and snatch the stick from his hand,
then someone breaks the stick over his knee
as others shove him back and forth with laughter,
till someone smacks him hard upside his head.
Falling to his knees, stunned by the hard blow,
the boy clutches his head as blood flows down,
then he curls to protect his face and stomach
as they kick him with their hard factory boots
for what seems like eternity of pain,
then they walk away, calling him foul names.
Gasping for breath, the boy crawls to the river
where he washes blood and mud off his face,
so he stumbles through streets of factories,
ears ringing and head throbbing from the pain,
then lies in bed when he arrives at home,
tumbling down forever in bleak abyss.
Rising before dawn, he goes to the kitchen
where he drinks orange juice and finds the black gun
his father keeps above the humming fridge,
and after loading it he steps outside
and strides back to his secret hideaway
far beyond the school where he is enrolled.
The boy in muddy sneakers and torn jeans
sits on the steep river shore in the Bronx
among rusted cars and heaps of old trash,
watching trucks rumble on the metal bridge
from the furniture factory with smoke stacks,
and fingers the gun, heavy in his hand.
Emerging from woods beyond trash-strewn park,
twelve boys belonging to the White Dogs Gang,
who wear leather jackets and factory boots,
swarm the boy with mocking sneers of contempt,
laughing as they shout, "Why did you come back,
Luke Skywalker, to save the pretty girl?"
Trembling as he stands to face the gang leader,
heart beating fierce from terror of strange courage,
the boy exclaims, "In some dire situations
the blaster works better than the light saber,"
then aims the gun and shoots him in the head,
smirking as the bullet blows out his brains.
The leader of the White Dogs Gang collapses
as blood from his head splatters all their faces,
then the boy aims the gun to fire again,
but they turn and run back into the woods,
so he stares at mangled face of the bully
who lies twisted by pile of magazines.
After walking back home he hides the gun
above the humming fridge, eats toasted bread,
sits in his dark room at the broken desk,
staring out the window at busy roads,
and grins, "I want to work as a policeman,"
then walks to school and sits in science class.
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