My poetic interpretation of a story I heard, that went something like this.

Going for Help

It was a really nice park that I was camped in.
I walked down to the Marina somewhere around ten,

There was a man there, dressed all in black ,
With a pack of explosives strapped on his back,

He was yelling at me ; I didn’t like his tone,
Something about infidels; I left him alone,

Suddenly tripping he let out a yell ,
With all that weight, in the water he, fell ,

He may be a Terrorist , but he’s going down ,
If he don’t dump explosives , He’s gonna drown,

I’m a good citizen; I’d try to save him,
But he’s outta luck, because I can’t swim,

True to my raising , I still had to try,
And notify authorities or he’s gonna die,

I went to my camp as soon as I could,
Just like any other concerned person would,

I notified Home Land Security and Nine One One,
The Sheriff, and Fire House , and when I was done,

I went back to the Marina, but there I found,
No one had showed up, the Terrorist had Drowned.

Sadly I made my way back to the camps,
Damn, I had just wasted four perfectly good stamps!