Hands bound with this rusty lock. How I cannot twist it off?
Mya does not understand; she's a girl, I am a man.
The chain is wrapped around the log with my head wracked in a fog.
Such a blow I did receive, it was one I could not see.
Mya's standing over me. My hand's gone blue, but legs are free.
What's she holding by her side? A club, a cane, a wiffled slide?
She speaks in coiled rhymes of verbs. A curse with every other word.
"Mya please..." I sputter forth, through weakened tongue as if rehearsed.