Mr. Brown had this wild glint,
eyes like burned-out lanterns,
but glowing with something fierce,
history breathing through his veins.
He’d stop mid-sentence, mid-fact,
something boiling, spilling over—
“BRRRATATATAT!” he’d shout,
hands jerking like electric wires,
fingers spitting imaginary bullets,
planes spinning in silent implosions,
kids gripping their ribs, gasping.
The chalkboard became a battlefield,
erasers turned to clouds of war,
spitfires tumbled through his gaze.
He wasn\'t just telling wars,
he was living them,
a madman on recon patrol.
Crazy, yes, but magnetic,
dragging us into the trenches,
cinematic madness in an old blazer.
History wasn’t dead in that room—
it was chaos, smoke, laughter.