Poem
Of Course The Eleven year old
nearly cleaned my clock.
Anyone can be hurt when they trust,
and I was just messing around
with the kids and was dumb enough
to include the one whose first name
may as well be Football
while I'm calling time out
to ensure no child is wounded,
he charges hard enough
that my glasses will now make sure
I feel something from this for the week.
His stepfather lax, Little Mr. Football
picks fights with kids half his size and age,
plans a tower of victims to bring him high enough
to be noticed by the absent father.
It was still a pleasure
to pin him down to the point
he feared never moving again.
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