You Can’t Fight Fire with Fire
(written many moons ago …)
I’m in a
murderous mood,
parked up on
the hill.
Everything I
encounter
jars me.
Some
punk kid
in a
daddy-bought car
pulls in
next to me.
He’s got his
teeth-rattling
deep-bass sounds
cranked
all the
way up.
He’s
gawking out
the windshield
with a
slack jaw.
I crank up
the volume
on my
radio &
roll down
my window.
Santana is
slamming out
Evil Ways.
But I
turn the
volume down &
roll the window
back up.
That’s no
way to
treat Santana.
