by Nick Gisburne
My little fists are far too frail to fight.
You’d never feel the punches, so, instead,
I brought my friends. Together, overnight,
We whispered what to hammer through your head.
They sleep inside the cupboards, in the dark.
An army, you could call them, if you like.
They’ve waited for a moment, just a spark,
To stick your heart with every kind of spike.
While none of us could knock you to the floor,
We’re utterly tenacious as a team,
So pick a number, multiplied, and more,
And that’s the force you’ll face before you scream.
You’re just a thug, a bully. Here’s the deal.
Ignore us. Run away. Or stay, and squeal.
