Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.225.56.116

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

He said, “Yes, I flew a fighter plane over the hills, and the people 
were running, they were just people, they were villagers, not soldiers, 
they were running away,”

and a tear came to his eye,  and it looked like a napalm-rain ,
as he dabbed  away the guilt and regret; 
because he flew a fighter  plane over the hills, and the people 
were running, running away;

but his rain caught them,  cindered  them;  and they 
weren’t soldiers, they were just people running away, 
granddads, mothers, babies,  aunts;  
and they were  all running, running, running - away

then he flew his plane home, over the hills, on to the deck,
 in to the mess, and ate the food and drank some coffee,  and 
watched TV;

and they fuelled, and bombed him up, and he flew 
again, over the hills, over the hills, far away, far away,
passing over the black-scorched earth, the granddads 
and mothers the babies and aunts and his tears dropped
to the cockpit floor, the cockpit door, and the flames told
him to jump out quick, before they licked;

and when they found him surrounded by silk, they took him 
back to the deck; and he watched TV and rested, and watched 
the news, of people running, running, running away;
but they didn’t show the  granddads , mothers, babies and aunts;

his grim, sycophants.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required