Friday, I think,
I partied late in the night,
Throwing rookies with kids,
to their delight:

A crafted throw
of farmers’ munitions,
As parents blew
cancer cloud emissions:

One screeched at her child:
‘Stand well back!’
(A danger she glimpsed,
through her cig-smoke-stack).

I showed a lad
how to light the short fuse,
Quick fingers gripped
the lit-fizzing tube.

The rookie he tossed,
into uncut grass,
Flame-furious complaint
pre-empt of blast:

That exploded jump-thump
of pressure on chest,
The rook scarer’s life,
An explosion, no less.


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