Growing
A little boy is playing
With his wooden gun;
Already he is saying,
“Where’s a better one?”
“And how long must I settle
For this paper hat?
My hat must be of metal,
Bullets must be flat.”
“When they’re flat they spread out
Wide inside the wound,
It’s hard to get the lead out
Once it has ballooned.”
For though he’s just eleven,
When he’s seventeen
He’ll send some men to Heaven
Like a good Marine.
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