Guy Fawkes Night

The rocket's in the bottle on a cold night street
The match flares wick to hiss, we give a half-retreat
We're sizzled by our thrilling and nothing more we need
But to feel the rocket flying and to know we did the deed.
The bottle's always rocking as a vessel much too small
To hold the firing rocket that's many times too tall
But there's the sport - to see ahead's no fun
We glory in chancing the outcome of the run.
A few are duds, a few roar up the town
As straight a stick as we can throw to knock the chestnuts down
But the wild-ones are our love to yell
That shriek as a blazing infidel
Erupting on the slate-roofs glare
Gushing in cinders down the cold night air.

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