ramblings and things

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Black Belt

He said he held a Black Belt from the
Most horrible of horrible Martial Arts,
Could break my neck with just a stare,
Or wreak havoc on various of my parts.
A terrible burden, he said, being
A highly trained killing machine,
Scarcely dared walk on the street
Lest he was identified when seen.


He couldn't cuddle or kiss
Or indulge in embraces with passion
Lest by chance he lose control and
Maimed his lover In horrible fashion.
He was a Martyr to his art
A slave to his martial skill,
Forgoing all life's carnal joys
By applying necessary force of will.


I left him standing on one leg
Demonstrating, with various kicks
The versatility of his art
And unarmed combat tricks.    
A tragic figure really,  worthy of awe,    
Dressed in his horrible art's kit
So dedicated that I found I couldn't
 Sympathise with him one little bit.

I saw him some years later
By accident at that,
Barely recognized the man
Who'd so sadly run to fat.
There's a lesson to this story:
There has to be somewhere
But for the life of me I just
 Couldn't bring myself to care.        
 
              





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Black Belt