The dispute came about quite simply,
Though of course, we couldn't say so then.
A clumsy stumble spilling beer, a harsh few words, toes trodden
And lazy, ***** glances towards 'his girl'.

The pub was warm, muggy, sweaty,
And I only noticed that when he'd thrown me out the door
Hands slick with sweat and cider clutching at my spas'ming throat
As I choke down cold night air and try to kick.

He hit very hard.
I did not.
He managed to keep the mud off his shirt.
I did not.
He stomped, and spat, and swore, and saw his rival broken before him.
I learnt that drink only makes you pain-free to a point.

But I contend, as I did then, as some kind soul dabbed at my blood
That I held the high ground, morally, honourably.
For you see, he simply got stuck in
While I demanded pistols at dawn.