Once again I’ve taken a famous first line, spun out a sonnet and come up with this
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Said his gut, after the tall tattooed prat
Began to give him a load of old crap
And offered his chin for a left then right.
The policeman took swabs with a defeated air
And radioed base for some medical help
The bungling nonce caused him to yelp
As another swab was jammed in his eye.
‘I am too old for this lark,’ he thought
With a smile, while his opponent gave vent
To his pain. A typical Friday that meant
A Saturday gone missing. After, he fought
The urge to return to the scene of the fight
And prove, he’d never go gentle, day or night.