Die Hard

Ode to a Tower‑Burst Classic

In the glossy glow of a Nakatomi Tower,
a London‑spun sonnet but born in New York’s hour.

John McClane, the porter of pints and rebellion,
steps through the lift and knocks—intrepid, un‑failing.

The villain, Hans Gruber, sharp as a razor‑edge,
holds room‑mates hostage like a ledger kept ledge.

A flat‑sized hope, an apartment of Greyscale,
a family bound tight within the Hall’s cool rail.

“Yippee‑ki‑yay, mother,” he cries on the phone,
his voice a crimson thread in the silence of stone.

The hostage‑takers hatch plans behind a tin‑filmed wall,
Traitorous schems—yet McClane stands proud as a hall.

The ‘chocolate egg’ markets burst, a drumbeat of shafts,
a fighter in a ballet of bullets that cuts like half‑laughs.

A holiday of Chanukah, the charges a candle’s glow,
while the men in suits drape loyalty with a foe.

The building’s heart flares, its cables ripple like kings,
but McClane’s quick wits pull each course into stings.

Count down the seconds as the pop‑corn of war flares up,
all chaos in a poetic cycle it’s cussed out!

Two condemnas erupt, the city spins into notes,
as the lads and lassies rally, their story sews a bolt.

The foley of gunfire, the echo of grim tears,
is the bass for a riot everyday pioneers.

At last the tower bursts into a fireworks rhyme,
and the night breathes quiet with the ghost of time.

Alas, the film ends on a dramatic roar,
yet Britain beams what it’s to survive ashore.

So we toast John McClane with a glass of amber,
for every hero lives in theBeat that we remember.