He was the bully;
pumelling on the new kid day after day,
his sycophants baying for blood -
(they'd get it soon enough).
It was during training for the school leaving dance
(americanised to 'prom' now I believe);
the teacher had left the hall and the boys were indulging
in some light-hearted horse-play,
in the course of which the new boy bumped into the bully,
who immediately raised his fists, ready for the usual
( sycophants baying).
for the new boy had raised his fists, and with a lightning jab drew blood -
one blow and it was all over! apart from an artistic display of back- peddling
from the bully until teacher returned.
The sycophants got their blood - did it matter whose, I wonder?
Later I asked him how he managed it - he just didn't know;
he knew it had happened - the bully carried a black-eye for a week -
but he had no idea how he did it.
to know that something is working mysteriously in our favour!
smelling blood from him