A man and boy dance in anger
Combat, to which neither is a stranger.
In the midst of the brutal brawl
The youngster takes a sudden fall.
The blistering recoil of a powerful sidearm
Echoes the infliction of death's well known charm.
A stagnant pool of crimson blood
Where a motionless lad had once stood.
As the man began to run
The dying youth shot him with a gun.
And as he fell into the dirt
Warm blood trickled through his shirt.
When he glanced along the ground
He saw the young man's lifeless mound.
It had reached up with much despair
A middle finger, high in the air.

Jon Andres