Spitfire Poem by Warren Augustus de Guzman

Staring at the white wall
Waiting for the siren’s call
But it will not come at all
The siren is out playing ball

Baseball out in the sun
Hair done up in a tight bun
One swing and she’s on the run
But the pitcher’s got a gun

Fire’s in the runner’s stead
Sends her home in a bed
Big red hole in her head
Not a single tear was shed

By the waiting in the room
Waiting for her voice to boom
They thought it’d be coming soon
But it was already past noon

Lunch had been given out
Fried chicken, bean sprout
Little bit of roasted trout
The boys all ate with a pout

A single car sped into sight
Man got out, full of spite
Grabbed a leg and with a bite
Told the room “there’s been a fight”

Siren’s out, out cold
She’ll soon be collecting mould
Didn’t reach twenty years old
Too bad she was really bold

Bold enough to spit the truth
Set up this here little booth
Got paid nothing but a tooth
From a guy who needed it.