Looking in the mirror,
Blinding myself with orange,
I hold the ultimate weapon.

Standing on the porch,
With my wiffle bat,
I declare open season.

From across the street comes an ancient warning.
“Stay off my lawn”,
Declares an old man.
With my wiffle bat,
I declare open season.
“Stay off my lawn”,
Declares an old man.

Striking in the middle of the day,
I move across the street with deadly efficiency.
Entering enemy yards,
My partner and I devastate all before us.
Bird houses blown to smithereens,
Tipped over, bird baths leak their life.
Gnomes are decapitated left and right,
Deer are bashed beyond recognition.
Flipping over walking stones reveal those lurking beneath.
Millipedes, ants, grubs, pinchers run to avoid certain death.
Unprecedented carnage will soon be reported on the news,
I think proudly to myself.

In my hands, Wiffler suddenly explodes into a million shards.
Echoing sound of death rings.
I turn to face my partner’s murderer,
There stands the old man with a double-barreled equalizer.
“I warned you,” he bellows.
I rush forward for vengeance, instead being riddled with buckshot.
Falling to the ground, my face rests in the remains of my victims.
Hunting season ended early this year,
My orange corpse can be seen in space.