Dedicated

He was different, he was mean. cold and stern, a beady gleam. fires fought and people saved, yet everyday he betrayed: the common man, a fellow hand. he needed none, a solo one. Piss ass drunk and smelled of skunk, he'd rob you blind and sell you shades. there wasn't much he wouldn't claim, I saw him spell his name in shit, too bad it was on public transit. I had to ask when he retired "What caused this? what transpired?" He told a tale that shook me up, and made me think, what the fuck. "I'll say it once, since I'm retired, the things I've seen, and what I've done, they haven't been just for fun. A while now back in 04' I saw a friend die, in a war. he was burned and shot, disfigured so. Wheezing's what let us know, he died twice, and then he spoke. "The fire wasn't all too bad, in my dreams it's all I had. no up or down, no sight nor sound. Just a burn and cloying smoke, the devil is, one cruel bloke." It gripped me hard, and never left, this tingling sense of his unrest. I learned to fight a fire best, I fought and raged while stuck in thought. That Englishman was tough as shit. I never shook the devil's grip, so instead I'll fight the fire prick.