For Rodney, whose light never seizes to shine.*
middle fingers up, middle fingers up - put your fists up!*

The Black Blazers;
they march and trot over,
the heart of the city.
Like seasoned veterans of war.
Unknowingly striking,
as they would on a gruesome battle field.

Buttoning their starch-pressed white shirts,
at the break of dawn,
like soldiers with bullet proof vests.
With the hope of becoming the hero at work,
even if its just for the day.

Elaborately folding their carvats,
some wonder,
'Do we really need to leave?'

Looking at their love,
in deep slumber with a hint of a smile on their face.
They take one glance at the mirror,
never looking back,
they go off to protect,
they go off to war.