Ben had an ear stud

And was already thirteen,

Which made him the natural leader.

He marched us across the wasteland

In a proper wedge formation,

Scraggled grass and dust

At our feet.

When we reached the chain-link trees

And leafed fence, sun in our

Eyes, he pointed out the old persons’ home.

Pruned Glaswegians lay sunk

In the terrace deck chairs.

We had munitions:

Wild fruits like cranberries,

But poisoned, maybe,

And we flung them with our kiddy arms.

Until Ben cried,

I got one in his mouth!

We bolted then, but a rasp from the faded

Feminine span me round.

Let me get a good look at ye,

Ye delinquent thug!

My conscience whimpered, and I hated Ben.