The house I'm currently renting is in a suburb of Fort Worth. At least, it
looked like a suburb when I signed the lease. As it turns out, the neighborhood is some kind of were-neighborhood; normal by day, but at night it turns into a ghetto, or more precisely, a barrio. My first clue was when I found a passed-out mexican dude on my lawn one morning during my first week of residence.
Pretty much every night is the same thing. Loud music from car stereos, shouting, the laughter of rowdy drunk people, and the faint smell of pot upon the warm twilight breeze. I'd call the cops, but they show up pretty regularly on their own, not that it does any good.
It was on one of these lovely evenings that my room-mates and I, along with some mutual acquaintances, were....I believe the parlance is "chilling"... on the back porch when across the street there arose such a clatter that one of said acquaintances and I sprang from our lawn-chairs to see what was the matter. Then what to our wondering eyes did appear, but a tatted latino male, cowering in fear.
He rushed towards my companion and I,
Gibbering in Spanglish I did not recognize.
There was but one word that I gathered from this,
The word was matar, in the infinitive.
Matar is Spanish, meaning to kill,
but IIRC it was meant in a tense akin to "they will".
As I tried to make sense of this amidst his rambling, three more latino males appeared,
not quite walking, but not quite shambling.
Each of the three held a blade of some size,
Fifteen centimeters or so apiece, at least to my eyes.
'Twas then that cause of his fear was apparent,
These men wished to stab him, for some deed they found errant.
Not knowing the cause, and not really caring,
My companion and I sheltered the man they found erring.
I gently suggested that they should get lost,
But still they advanced, not giving a toss.
As much as I love fighting people with knives,
There was clearly a need to re-strategize.
It was then that I chose to employ one more friend,
One with a business-minded nine-millimeter end.
The friend I refer to is my P38,
1943, of quality Walther make.
Then upon the assailants it finally dawned,
That they should take my advice and get the **** off my lawn.
The tatted latino was taken away,
Safe with the cops who were fashionably late.
Clearly, I am not schooled in proper verse,
In fact, I destroyed it,
But that is my poem,
And I hope you enjoyed it.
