Last Resort

All me life I’ve been a bushman who lived mostly in a city with dodging cars and sleazy bars and no-one showing pity. A city is a concrete jungle, divvied by ribbons of tar, and everyone must watch their back or bear a mental scar. That’s why I call meself a bushman ‘cause I feel much healthier tramping through the undergrowth where I feel more wealthier than breathing in the choking smog and numbing to the constant noise, in bids to keep up with the Jones’ or to flee a mugger’s poise. And I’m not the only one who feels quite fearful in the streets where the lighting becomes dim and it is silhouettes one meets, with pepper spray and whistles ready, just in case something begun, and of course there is for last resorts … my beretta jetfire gun. So when I became a traveller to all corners of the earth, I have my bodyguards in waiting for the hope that they’ll be worth when there’s a lack of local knowledge of animal or man, but I can put up quite a fight and beat the hunter with a plan. And my plan came into play when on a US hiking trip through Yellowstone in wilderness with my baretta on my hip; I was hiking with a woman who I’d met when in Brazil, and we were forced to flee, Amazonians, amid their threats to kill. We flew to Africa together to hike along the Serengeti, where predators just out of reach would leave us mildly sweaty, but we always felt we’re in control out of our comfort zone just like we were together when hiking there in Yellowstone. And its thanks to my baretta; that pistol with a single shot that I’m alive to write this poem with execution of my plot. We were hiking up along a ridge when I saw something brown that was moving slow behind a shrub before it went to town. A growling grizzly bear appeared and prepared to run us down, and as we fled the fact was there; the bear was gaining ground, so I drew out my baretta; took careful aim and saved the day. I shot the woman just behind her knee, and made my getaway.