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While searching through my childhood dresser, I stumbled across some old poems that I had written back in the eighth grade. Some were okay and some were, well, “cute,”as my teacher put it. One thing is for sure, however, they shouldn’t be seen by human eyes.

But, this is how much I love you all. So, may I present to you for your viewing pleasure, a poem from the vault, as written by a 13-year-old Leroy Brumage.

Bain sult as!

With Guns In Hands

My heart is pounding,

My blood is rushing.

The men are coming

With guns in hand.

I am sweating bullets

My arms are shaking

Oh, they are coming for me

With guns in hand

“Please don’t hurt me,

I didn’t do it.”

“What,” the officer asks,

“All we want are directions.”