Blasto

Hunched up in a little ball.
They fooled around and grabbed his balls, and
Called him names and bled him dry.
He tried to lie, he tried to cry.
To die (but there was no one listening).
They left him lying by a drain, and somehow he forgot the
Pain.
The rain and the raining boots and blades.
He pressed a friendly doorbell and they gave him lemonade
And laid him on a bed.
But still his head went spinning 'round and still the
Blood went dripping down.
It soaked the sheets, it soaked his shirt, soaked his
Jersey sweater.
Better get the blasto out to blast away the stains.
Nothings better.