Overgrown Boys With Bigger Toys

What do wars do, really, Except fill coffins And long strong black cars. The dead are their business, Laying up death for rainy nights, While in store houses stink Of stories cut short at the slabs - Stack up like crates; Pushing to be going. And yet these neatly packaged lives, So tight with memories, We trade off For bigger arms that harm the sky. Exhausted, the sky screeches As bullies pummle the earth like jack hammers. Outside the over crowded mortuaries fill up New crisp coffins creep by Long strong black cars.