Florist Shops
Florist Shops
Florist shops, all out of flowers.
Young people chanting peace and love, not war.
Last time I came home, they spit on me
Everywhere I look, I see a black hurst
Filling up green fields with all my brothers,
My brothers in Arms, and all I can do is pray,
Is pray that one day it won’t be me.
This jungle ain’t no joke
Trying to stay alive
On bullets and smoke.
Counting down the days until I can leave this place.
I’m fighting, fighting for me and him
The nights all belong to them
Foreign soil, its all foreign to me
Missing my family over here
Surrounded by the enemy everywhere
And back home, florist shops
All out of flowers, for you and me.
Copyright © Jeffrey Martin | Year Posted 2018
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