series2bk6.073

 

Like the brimming of high tide, or the seasonal torch of a scorching summer, we both quicken to the timer's tick, climbing up in readiness for the trumpeting resumption of open hatred in declared war. When raw scent of battle fills the air, like the pair of veteran warhorses, (stamping, champing, with distended nostrils,) the clarion call for an all out charge triggers the fury. As boorish as a school bully, with animal cunning, your lunges are held back for the unfair (and rare) advantage of a tripping handicap - when you slap, spit, scratch or kick to the balls.      The other's grievance each might understand,      but first you'll need to treat me as a man.