“Knock that off, if you dare,” bids a Speck chorus.
“I will if I want to,” you assert.
“Well, do it, then!” invites Speck.
“I will if I want to.”
“Well, do it, then!”
“I will if I want to.”
You strive to work up steam by biting your lips, and raising your voice, and spitting ferociously into the dust; you are assisted by the irritating shoves bestowed upon you from behind.
“Well, do it, then!”
“I will if I want to.”
Impatient fingers supply you also with a gage of defiance, an impertinent sliver laid athwart your collarbone.