Soldier Speak
I found a bit of poetry
tacked up on a door
while wandering through the halls
of the latest-greatest war
So I scootchied up my dungarees,
and with squinty eyes I read,
“If you can read this poetry
you are likely dead.
Because there is no door here,
nothing written on a gate,
the poem which you are looking at
is nothing but your fate.
‘Cause the hogging hungry war machine
run by grinchy greedy men
has an appetite for carnage,
which seems to have no end.
Chaos is it’s business,
making bucks for those,
who’ve no regard for living things.
That’s the way it goes.
By turning life to death
(the basics of their plan)
they pad their purse and pockets
just because they can.”
I thought I thought a thought
(or, I guess, I thought I did),
“Before the latest-greatest war,
I surely wish I’d hid.”
I learned skills for making kills,
but two things I abhor:
those kills which give folks thrills
and the latest-greatest war.
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