Taketh the weapon's
Out of the young
Poor man's hand's;

And replace the gun
In the palm's
Of the old, rich beastly men;

Send the young boy's
Home
Who art but eighteen;

Let the greedy
Fight their own war
For their oil, gold, and papery green.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

Worked for thousands of years
For some rich men I still serve

Still dreaming through all of the years
Dreams of all the rich men’s pleasures

Out there among the millions of stars
Time travel faster than I could ever imagine

So many money and ***** tricks to be spend
Fly me up on rockets to the never lasting end

Work for some rich men who got all powers
Burn me up dying for some real bad ideas

Take a last breath and get in the grave
A life with no questions and no answers

Don’t get too excited and claim your rights
Find a man to marry get daughters and sons

Shipping companies transporting goods
Now you’ll work for thousands of years.