Songwriter, guitarist and composer
Second Born of Five
An anti-war analogy told from the point of view of a dog bred to fight.
Second born of five, the last to find the light that greeted four to stay alive,
But the first to understand the nature needed to survive
when three other mouths like mine scream for my share.
With a mark bestowed by God across his face
the eldest claimed authority, the others learned their place
but I never bowed my head to his imaginary grace
and matched each and every second of his glare.
And I never dropped my guard, but after every fight there grew a delicate regard.
Territories blurred and some semblance of pardon
sealed the signatures of tooth and claw we shared.
Without warning they arrived.
One left with my brother, another took me aside to see the scars across my body
And the gaze that had defied each attempt to make me second among peers.
He told me all goodwill was unsound,
how the eldest despite the peace would always keep me down
and I would do well to remember all these scares I carry round,
how they’d soon give me a name to be revered.
He said they’ll cheer and they’ll spill beer and that’s the closest to a ticker tape parade a dog like you would ever be.
That sounded good enough for me.
Thrown against the wall, but with every feral tooth on show I leapt back from every fall
They goaded me to rage and made me eager for the brawl
until what little faith I had was in the pit.
As rivals took their place he reminded me what they could do if doubt was given space.
When he took away the chain it was no more than a race
to tear their throats before I let my own be slit.
Undisputed and starred, months bled into years and my reputation travelled far.
Each city’s underbelly roared with barbarous desire
to see the devastation meted out by
just another second born of five.
He led me to an old abandoned school
And from the money changing hands I knew this one would be cruel.
To the far side of the pit they brought their city’s fighting jewel
and no crowd before screamed so loud for the kill.
On a chain identical to mine, across a now disfigured face I saw that mark much less divine than when they led him from my sight.
Chains fell and with the worst intent his hatred matched my own
and, though his strength had only grown,
I saw a moment’s gaze of doubt,
tore his neck down to the bone and he fell still.
He bled out all the shame within and wept, not for his status
but the nature of his kin,
and whispered ‘kid, whatever lives we took we’ll never own the sin’.
His final exhalation drowned beneath a Godless din
as they cheered, spilled beer and made it clear
that the dead know only one thing; it is better to be alive.
The sound of absolution for the bloody teeth
of a second born of five.
Written by Del Scott Miller
Mobile: 07988775994
Mobile: 07988775994 | Email Del Scott Miller