The Black Hand Gang

We were the Black Hand Gang: The rule of five
shaped our group dynamic in the playground.
We were the boss, the bully, the joker
and the geek, plus the mummy's boy who played
with girls. No tokenism on our street.

The Second World War still raged on waste ground
round our block of flats. No chance to broker
peace. We took no prisoners and just slayed
without mercy. White feathers for retreat.
'Achtung, Fritz! Banzai!' we cried. 'Dive! Dive! Dive!'

Asked to hold hands or a red hot poker,
we would always choose freedom, as we strayed
far afield, come sunshine, rain, hail, wind, sleet
or snow. Just to run and to feel alive
was our reward. Kings of nature, uncrowned.

And yet, all rulers risk being betrayed
and all petty fiefdoms must face defeat.
Despite our efforts, we could not contrive
to stay young forever. By time unbound;
the day the Gang broke up was a choker.

We washed our hands and ceased to be elite;
a scattered quincunx, never to revive
our former glory. We are to be found
playing the tosser, the gull, the toker
and the chic, plus the lady's man; dismayed.