By Valerie Muriel Mckinley
Published: August 11, 2008
Updated: August 14, 2008

A bull whip
his choice of torture.
One flick of a fat wrist
produced an ear-splitting
hide tingling crack.

His desired effect achieved
he would stand arms akimbo,
whip re-coiled, hanging loosely
around fat ringed fingers.

Grin grotesquely
slitting his ruddy
double chinned face in two.
Gaitered legs parted,
he was pomposity personified.

Our crime?
Fishing in his pit
or scrumping his ripe red plums.

Hearts racing, legs pumping like pistons
we would be off faster than
Superman could fly
at the Saturday threepenny rush.

Yet for all his posturing
we could out smart his every move,
he didnít expect a counter attack
the minute his back was turned.

Our spoils
a bag of juicy plums
or a tasty trout for mum.
I canít ever recall returning
home empty handed.