We stood our ground and we stood strong;
the die was cast, the lines were drawn.
This was our ‘hood, our turf, on Reese.
They lived, poor chumps, on Midland Street.
We came with sticks, we came with stones,
we came with taunts of shabby homes,
we’d sooner live on bogs of peat
than any house on Midland Street,
and they returned the slurs in kind,
live on Reese? We’d rather die.
We fought the fight like warriors brave
and swore we’d stay until they fell,
for honor and for glory’s sake,
we’d leave their street a Midland hell—
unless our mothers called us in
for dinner, chores or chocolate cake—
then the smote they’d surely take
would come, we vowed, another day,
and spirits high, we marched toward home
with sticks and stones we’d yet to throw.
We were seven, maybe eight,
fed and fast asleep by nine;
boredom, mostly, was our foe
and all we killed, in truth, was time.