Our "sergeant" gave a low whistle
that stopped us in our tracks.
He motioned two kids forward
to prepare for the "attack".
The "enemy" was hiding.
Behind Uncle Louie's rusted Ford.
We checked our "guns" and "ammo"
and we trusted in the Lord.

We couldn't call artillery.
We couldn't drop ******.
If we really killed my cousins
they'd be Hell to pay from Mom.
We launched a pincer movement
with our guns set to pretend.
Imaginary air grenades
made quick work of my friends.

They had little cause to argue
as we shot them in the back.
They swooned upon the concrete.
All were "dead" from our attack.

Just then our Mother's called us in
for a feast of sausage bread.
Amazing how the dinner bell
so quickly raised the "dead".

All of us are older now
and some have gone to war.
Some Mother's sons I played with
aren't with us anymore.

If only Moms could ring a bell
and call us in to eat
And raise those honored dead to life
like back there on my street.