You don’t know how to stop.
I don’t want to start
because I see the drop.
And so I weigh this dart

and try to hold it back.
(Letting fly would be weak.)
You say my face looks black.
You ask: “Why won’t you speak?”

Because all I can say
is poison, anger, spite.
There is no other way:
I know no ‘fighting lite’.

I have the killer line;
the word to end it now.
Trying to mend’s not mine,
and once I plough, I plough.

I could end this match,
know where to place a punch.
I find your talking lame.
I want to hear that crunch

when you hit the floor
after that final sway.
Hey, it’s a metaphor!
I don’t mean what I say.

So I had best shut up
and keep things to myself,
be silent while we sup
and glower at the shelf.

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