Sh-blam-oh

Pulling the pins
from pine cones,
we roll them under the tyres
of oncoming family saloons.
Counting our kills,
we terrorise the school run,
take out whole buses
with a shrapnel handful
of roadside grit.

A directly hit
Punto brakes suddenly
and parks. Its pilot
ejects, heels and legs still
attached: walking, not wounded,
she stands above us,
her shoulders padded like a general.
We do not salute.
"You could have killed me, she says.

Marched to our barracks,
Shane's Dad lined us up
against the garden wall, bollocked
us to the lady's approval, louder
than any firing squad.
Only once she'd gone did he commend
our bravery in the face of such do-goodery.
No medals, but that warmth that can only come
from surviving execution.