Swirling and twirling with furrowed brows
We drew our weapons and took our bows

Freshly torn limbs from the maple tree
A dual of leafy, branched shrubbery

The stumped end was far too wide
To hold it comfortably, I switched sides

Spinning a six foot club until
CRACK!
He dropped his bough, going still

He hit the ground immediately after
The air no longer graced with laughter
Cupping his hands to his head
They filled with crimson as he bled

Fourteen stitches later, a doctors’ visit and hospital stay
I didn’t kill my best bud and we’re still friends to this day