The bell had rung recess at the kindergarten. Freedom from class at last made the tots' hearts hearten.
They rushed into the much-surveilled courtyard to play without a chance for paedos to lead them astray.
There were cameras and guards, and great barbed wire; there was no risk of gas, or attacks, or fire.
The dangers from without were fully kept by checks; any peril would have to hail from their own becks. The sun was burning bright above the gambolfield.
The tired supervisors used their hands as a shield from blindness and moisture, and anger and umbrage.
Young or old, they all bore a cognitive luggage, filled with flatness, boredom, many a distraction of which their lazy state decupled the passion.
They thought themselves shepherds from romances of Rome,
allowed to drowse away as the childly rhizome handled itself alone like a secure hivemind in which - as they were babes - they could not act unkind.
The premise was phony, but they just wanted peace - what's the worst that could come before th'civic police?
The kids were in chaos, playing prescribed games, when all out of the blue was a question of claims.
Billie had seen his dad's handling of women, wanted to mimic him even as a wee man; Jimmy had watched TV at four in the morning, thought it an example rather than a warning.
Both boys set for Mary, who was blond like the gal and like the ingenue.
They had been a good pal one to the other one, but metamorphosis had altered their lifeview, made them both merciless,
overruled all friendship in favour of courtship - they needed that loveship, lest their doom to deathship.
The very atmosphere had changed from their struggle, though the adults kept their sleepy straight up snuggle. All the other toddlers began to cheer them on.
Hushly, first, then louder, then each became a spawn of foul play's full-blown force and primitive fury.
Their babbling was war; gurgling, a grand jury eager to see blood shed for its first time in life.
The cruelty would soon gain even the would-be wife, whose encouragement made one grab hold of a stick; the other, of a rock.
The two ogled with wick their rival, their trophy, the crowd and the idle. As they had no manners, they no longer bridled: one dashed at the other - 'twas a brutal waddle.
A tiny throat was slit by such-and-such sharpness. It had all died away, the voice of role model. One soul was reaped before it savvied its darkness.
Don't ours all.