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Batman and the Fiddler on the roof

And on the roof that autumn day, two super heroes met.
The wind was lashing jagged rain; aggressive, cold and wet.
The C.C.T.V cameras were angled on these guys
As, alternately, each tried to take the other by surprise.


Batman lunges forward with a brutal downward blow –
The Fiddler is belted backwards – reflexes are slow.
Dazed, he sees the sky, the rain; Batman’s awesome frame,
And in single leg swipe he brings Batman down in shame.

Batman hits the deck and cracks the rooftop clean in two
And the Fiddler is on him in a flash, like superglue.
They roll around the rubble roof, trying to gain control.
Both attempt to dominate the other: That’s the goal.

Batman grunts and heaves and writhes beneath the Fiddler’s grip,
And slips into a Fiddler’s leg lock: just below the hip.
And every move that Batman makes, he slips a little more.
“Sleeper hold,” the Fiddler whispers, “Brutal final score.”

Panting, intertwined, ferocious, beast gives in to beast:
In both, a burst of superherotosterone’s released.
Batman, who was bested, is now suddenly on top,
And with his ice blue eyes he asks the Fiddler, “Shall I stop?”

The answer is so simple and so quiet; so direct
That, beneath the body armour there’s a blood-flow redirect.
“That’s it Fiddler. Feel that!” says Batman in a rumble.
“By the time we’re done you will remember you are humble.”

“Ok, Batman. You’re the Boss. You need to be rewarded,
“But what you’re just about to do to me can’t be recorded.”
And, at that moment, every single rooftop camera failed
Which is why, beyond this point, the story cannot be detailed.

20th June 2013 ©Simon Welsh Poetry

Inspired in concept and content by a man with ice blue eyes.
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