The call came in at 8:05.
It was a quiet Sunday eve.
And quiet still as the Tip Line told
that girl scouts had been thieved.
They’d stood all day in blazing sun
or rain or sleet or shine.
It didn’t matter what type of weather
just the weather wasn’t fine.
All day they’d sold their cookies
only breaking once for lunch.
Thin Mints were a favorite,
and Thank You Berry Munch.
By the time the sun was setting
their money bag was full
of cash they’d use for camps and crafts
and making Worry Dolls from wool.
But even as they boxed their boxes up
darkness was descending down
in the form of some punk-ass kid
from the punk-ass side of town.
Only a no-good lowlife so and so
could be so fucking selfish
as to grab the money and run, leaving
girl scouts stunned and helpless.
The girls described a wiry kid
Five-foot-nine and mean.
A blue cap, hoodie, and black skateboard.
used to flee the scene.
For the nightdesk editor playing Pong
the decision wasn’t tough.
The details dropped in stanza two
were breaking news enough.
The camera, George, packed up the truck.
The newsman donned his tweed.
He paused to practice somber tones
in the mirror while he peed.
The drive was an hour long
but at least they had a story.
And the morning shows still slightly preferred
bleeding hearts to gory.
The news van found the parking lot,
three scouts still standing there.
They stood awhile longer, too,
while the newsman milked his hair.
Once the scene was lit and George
had the cookie cases framed,
the girl scouts told their tale of woe
and it sounded much the same.
The day, the bag, the skateboarder—
and one detail that had slipped.
One girl had given chase—
a stride at least—then tripped.
The newsman struck his somber tone
and hid his extra glee
as the center scout rolled her pant leg up
to reveal a bandaged knee.