Did a podcast thing today and was talking about how reckless Guy Fawkes Night used to be. Chucking fireworks around, bit of casual arson. I said it sounded like those poems in local newspapers, where they lie about the past and grin through the horror, so I wrote one:
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Fire safety? No es necesario.
Bonfire Night was in November.
No health and safety that I can remember!
Sparklers, rockets, roman candles.
Baked potatoes, toffee apples.
And bangers, toy sticks of dynamite.
We used to tape loads together, throw them at each other's faces, that's how I lost my sight.
Lost my sight.