"ammo" poems
Fierce combat in an unknown land
One winner, may the best man withstand
Race against the elements, surrounded by foes
The battle is underway, stock up on ammo
Navigate the grounds, try to stay out of sight
If spotted be prepared for a brutal fight
Time nears the end only two remain
Everything fades black that’s the end of the game
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 11:53 PM UTC
all aluminum alloy ammo
bane bat brakes badly basters back bones
come call cthulhu Cristo cuz
dead ********** dominate de download
even elven eternal endowments
fail frivolously flaming for fair fraudulence
grant good goggles give grandiose gratuity
how hella homeboys have how he has
If I ignore I implicate its implore
jack jacks jacks
kay killla kooks krack
LAPD locks la lackeys
maybe mom made mad monoxide
no, no natural nix NOx neutralizes
oh over overt opp only overlay orphic
please protest politely panic pretenses perpetuity
quiet quivers quiet queens
remember rage reaps reciprocity
so sour sits supplanters sat
to tell them to tare trail *** tat?
universal unhappiness underlays under us
victory validates victors vanity
why warble when winners wont waste worry wanting
x-axis x-rays Xerophagy Xanax Xanthorroea
you yodel yonder yet yahweh's yells Yarrish
zero zag zealots zoos
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 4:40 AM UTC
I wanted to write a poem about the joys simple things. But I’ve lost the meaning of them since I’ve been away it seems. For many years I’ve served duty tours, it’s just the life that I have lived. So I write poems of war and of warriors and death; sometimes it’s all I have left to give.
I picked my brain for images of candlelight picnics on sandy beaches, but I opened the basket looking for ammo to load in my weapon breaches. Oiling my guns may not be romantic, or when I lace my boots up tight, but you can bet your **** it comes in handy when you’re caught in a fire fight.
I tried concentrating as hard as I could, trying to envision more peaceful things. Instead I was reminded of Black Hawks with M240-Bravos in weapon slings. It seems I can’t be normal or think like a normal human being, I’ve been battle hardened inside my soul and this is part of what it brings.
PTSD is what they call it, they say I need some aid, but it just feels like second nature, pulling the pins and throwing grenades. I’ll go home one day and I’ll look the same because my wife can’t see my scars, I’ve hid them all inside myself and that’s what makes this hard.
They tell me I’ve been lucky, I didn’t get a single injury. But the damage was done inside of me and that’s what they don’t see. So I’ll go home a “lucky one” and act like I am fine, and live my days pretending, while keeping this war trapped in my mind.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
never been so unsure,
all i need is a little more time.
no, i'm not walking out that door.
no, i don't know.
i'm a sinner with no trace,
when did the rush fade away?
when did i think you were a mistake?
no, i'm your mistake.
i'm yet to see your eyes,
will its spark outshine my pride?
you're yet to prove your lies,
wait, no, i'm the lie.
my mind keeps on changing
i've some trouble breathing
it's not a beautiful feeling,
when you're guilt keeps on knocking.
what do i do with you?
what do i do with me?
i have never intended to hurt somebody.
i am a gun, i don't run out of ammo.
you're a good target, i just can't let you go.
what i'm about to do, i'm afraid it would hurt you.
so before i shoot, just hide.
don't take a breath.
don't fight.
please know i'm thinking of your heart,
but i gotta think of mine too.
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
1.
There was the tremor of leaves,
a rustle of bayonet grass
parried the multihued calm
of dawn's smeared light.
"This is what we trained for," the captain said.
We hunkered behind stacked bags of sand.
2.
Filigreed shafts of light pierce
the bullet perforated leaf canopy,
bellowed yells punctuate the swirl
and buffet of turbulent air:
“Contact”, “2 O’Clock”, “Incoming”, “
"Moving”, “Reloading”, “Ammo”.
3.
Fingers twitch, the grit of soil
twisted through their grip;
moon slashed carcasses glint, spent shells,
Earth exhales a vermillion mist,
rising, echoless, in this cathedral of leaves.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
To a sky which showed no sign of light,
Black smoke was rising, from no other than a flagship which sailed across the stormy ocean, Nagato, ready to fight was however at ease.
Until we encountered two enemy ships, a Kongou and a Tirpitz.
Both of them, with a merciless sight fired everything they got, a hard decision was to be made, who shall hit us if we dodge, who shall not?
The Kongou, landed some hits as the sea consumed the others shells,
Just overpenned, lucky for us it seemed, until we re-adjust our angle,
What does the future hold for one who survived but couldn't protect her friends, as the sun no longer rises these memories return.
It didn't take long, the weakspot of one of them was their petty armor,
Kongou sank, spilling her tears into the water she was unable to escape from, another turn was made, it was the final battle, final hope,
Reparing some damage in the little time we had, Nagato drove like an absolute mad man, left, right continuesly just so our ship would not end up like their Kongou, our citadel was an easy target, after all.
Shells are to be exchanged, smoke escapes from our guns, this lady was refusing to let her life slip away until she at least do what she could, exhausted and almost out of ammo, we landed a lethal strike.
Watching the enemy ship slip away before our eyes, knowing that Nagato was to sail almost into the same fate made us then realise...
Even if the damage could be repaired and parts exchanged, brought anew and even if we make it back in one piece without capsizing:
Forever will be the marks of battle painted in her burnt, wounded steel.
~ Umi
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
***** **** ***
Terms that we all know
Which only goes to show
The depths to which men go
To shame women although
They have mothers who
Get categorized that way too
But they act like who knew
***** **** ***
It has a certain flow
On and on we go
Tryin’ to bring ‘em low
But it’s not fair and yo
We need to take it slow
Before those labels stick
Let’s change our rhetoric
***** **** ***
People that we know
Use it frequently although
It shouldn’t be that way but yo
Guess that’s just how it go
We use it for ammo
When we refuse to grow
Change sometimes is slow
***** **** ***
Are terms that havta go
Why hold ‘em in escrow
For the sake of puttin’ on a show
Of put downs that’s below
The ladies we bestow
Those names on even though
They’ve become status quo
Cedric McClester. Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
Turkey hunting with his pappy
The dogs let loose into the marsh
Birds flew out, and guns went off
The end result was rather harsh
Willie Joe jumped first at nothing
Shot at turkeys in the air
First shot missed, but hit a target
He'd shot Jim Joseph in the ear
Time to call the Country Preacher
A service needed to be done
The end result was up to Jesus
At the wrong end of a country gun
Jolene was all set for college
Had a baby on the way
One quick fling in the hay with Joseph
There was nothing left for her to say
Joseph stood and did deny it
Said that Jolene told a lie
Jolene's daddy got his shotgun
And with no wedding, Joseph'd die
Time to call the Country Preacher
A service needed to be done
The end result was up to Jesus
At the wrong end of a country gun
The wedding went off without trouble
Both families were there in force
Jolene's dad had brought his shotgun
The best man was old Joseph's horse
The moonshine flowed like holy water
There was no jar that wasn't filled
And through it all, poor pregnant Jolene
Wondered who would end up killed
Time to call the Country Preacher
A service needed to be done
The end result was up to Jesus
At the wrong end of a country gun
The preacher preached and people listened
Amened here and there throughout
A few well placed hallelujahs
Praise the lord was heard no doubt
All dressed in black with eyes just shining
He couldn't have done smiled more
For who in town knew that the preacher
Owned the gun and ammo store?
Time to call the Country Preacher
A service needed to be done
The end result was up to Jesus
And the preacher would refill the gun.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 10:22 PM UTC
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Halloween night on this hallowed ground
I stand here among all these terrifying sounds
With the sky so dark the moon barely glows
The creatures of the night gather around close
Hiding in the shadows of the night
Trying to give me a big ole fright
But what these monsters do not know
I have come prepared with my own ammo
Wolf man steps up with his intent to maul
but I distract him by throwing a tennis ball
A witch flies in and thinks I didn't spot her
then flies away when I spray holy water
Dracula with no one around to judge
Was happy I brought him a bag of blood
Frankenstein was pretty easy to fend
All he wanted was to have a new friend
Moral of this story is pretty simple...
Yes monsters are out there
but lets clear up all the confusion
The real monsters out there are human
Happy Halloween HP :)
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
Pebbles thrown at me
felt like boulders weighing me down.
But eventually I picked them up
and made a path on the ground with them,
and now
little snide remarks about my
style
feelings,
and attitude
are through.
Yeah-
you left me with some ammo I can use.
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
its
the TV commercials
the fake ****
the campaign trail
the welfare recipients
psychotic shooters
bible thumpers
and athiests
salesmen
gangsters and
special interests
its junk mail
the court system
its the poor paying more
the ignorant
the scared
the recluse
the extroverts
the sales tax
the hospital bills
zombie ammo
beggars making more than me
nuclear threats
starvation
animal abuse
drug addiction
half assery
its the bullies
the police
its advantage
in retreat
the lies
the masks
the crys
the laughs
its all the ******** that ******* annoys me
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 12:14 AM UTC
All the bones at the bottoms of the rivers
Piling up under the bridges
All of the grief and lonely shivers
Washing out from the land to the seas
All of the mothers and sons in their caskets
For father’s ammo and daughter’s lies
All the babies placed in rivers in baskets
With hopes for their futures and tears in their eyes
The suffering fools can’t be accountable
Their fates stand on the edge of a knife
The suffering fools won’t be available
They don’t last long in the world of lies
I suffer the fools not gladly, but solemnly
It breaks my heart that I’m not on their side
I’m suffering fools and I can’t be responsible
I’ve had to suffer fools all of my life
From the desert of the mediocre, aggressive and arrogant
An oasis of sincerity is what I have sought
All this time I’ve put up with ignorance
to deny my merely rational thoughts
Each of the myths that was meant to save us
A foundation of sorrow and hopeless consent
What can be done with satyrs and saviours
By now no one knows what they really meant
The suffering fools can’t be accountable
Refusing to give, but eager to take
The suffering fools won’t be available
And decline to shift even for their own sake
I suffer the fools not gladly, but shamefully
It breaks my heart to know what’s at stake
I’m suffering fools and I know it’s disgraceful
But I’ve suffered all the fools that I can take
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
fight the horde.../...I can't beleive it...
we're overrun.../...what do they WANT?!...
a teammate falls.../...the world's gone TO hell...
he won't make it.../...their drive is to EAT...
they chomp away.../...obi wan isn't YOUR only hope...
out of ammo.../...can't stop it!...
fangs tear in.../...she'll never know...
they'll never stop.../...my last breath...
...i think...
stand up soldier!.../...i can't think straight...
the hive mind speaks!.../... BRAINS are for the living...
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Espresso Yourself
Word hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes,
unload reload,
you’re the gun,
memories are the ammo,
noting is verboten even when forgotten,
this twisted linguistic addict attitude is not an act or a show,
but the derangement of this is entertainment regardless,
and this artist is in demand all around the world,
they want to take my time,
and everything else that I thought was mine,
but I don’t have the time to spare because I’m in a race to nowhere,
trying to find the finish line before I completely lose my mind,
gaining ground in quicksand sick and no one seems to care,
grinding grounds no chitchat i just grab my espresso and get outta there,
there as in here no beer just these coffee beans this is a caffeine affair,
I’ll take a double on the double,
actually if it’s more simple I’ll take a triple,
no milk no sugar no trouble,
just this espresso and these expressions that ripple,
with words hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
Hairline cracks are breaking through
the slough I'm about to shed.
Dry and dysfunctional
as the neuron sac in my skull.
I'll change my hat and change my ammo
honeysuckle artillery polished,
waiting in my drawer.
Sliding an empty coffee mug
back and forth along a counter
like a puck preparing for a slapshot.
Paper matches in colourful books
pressed between the pages
found leaves for child arsonists.
Takeout boxes filled with poems
are sold as artefacts
Don't be silly, poetry comes in plastic bags,
not styrofoam.
To keep ideas hot, wrap them in tinfoil.
But don't forget to leave a hole at the top for steam
or your fresh concepts will get soggy.
Equipped with tennis *****
spandex suits picket office blocks
standing on chairs and voicing nearly racist remarks
making health and safety inspectors nervous.
Out of control students
launch dictionaries out of third story windows,
donning 21st century masks.
I left my patience beside my keys, on the kitchen table.
Waiting in line for obsolete phone booths
as movie stars soundlessly mouth slang into a receiver.
Nearly responsible
nearly nine
nearly time for bed
I resolve again
that I’ll resolve more
but this time write it down.
Folding kamikaze paper planes
to hide behind park benches, fly into trees.
Let the sun fade the pencil crayon.
I can't run from this blasé gangrene that’s taken my toes.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Forever and always she made herself stand,
holding on to nothing but an ever-fleeting hand
Relentlessly holding an already shattered man
She blinded herself with his over-sized fans
Impressively outspoken she was nothing like them,
she allowed herself to simply comprehend
Always will you assume that which you "know,"
but please understand, this wasn't any puppet show
Never before had she really understood,
rhetorically she screamed at the deafening looks
Praying for more then a stiff right hook,
asking her nicely to move more than a foot
Bending and curling, spinning and twirling,
her mother never dreamed one day she'd be swerving
silver-tongued, smooth as they come,
she found a puppet master with more ammo then guns
One by one he strung them through,
he controlled every move she tried to pursue
Never did he think his strings could fall loose
One day they did and he was left with a noose
Puppet Master, haven't you heard?
You cannot put strings on this wild bird
She'll shake and **** until she comes untied
And when she gets out she'll stay out for life
Tiny dancer, break free of his song,
you knew you could do better, all along
Remember its true, just believe you are strong
And never again can they tell you 'it's wrong.'
Don't stress the small stuff, just move on
His strings are hers, and you're better off
Believe what you say and say it every day
The book can't continue if you don't flip the page
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 6:26 PM UTC
Smells like Gun Powder in the empty room
tainted by the aura of damaged memories
feeling my armor worn out and weary
going down the stairs, the lights are fading
warm blood in my hands like a distant afternoon
I'll ride shotgun with a shotgun like in the old days
and we'll make a right turn on memory lane
just make sure to stop at every corner
so I can blast your remembrance away.
Smells like Gun Powder on my side of the bed
where for the hundred time you ask if I'll be ok
I wish I had some Whisky,
it sure is wishful thinking
in my dreams I am always sober,
somehow never drinking
quite the opposite of the real life I lead
I can always count on my nightmares
to always find you here
in our worn out bed fully clothed
facing the window
and your face clenched in sorrow
is a moving talking picture.
It's pouring down again
in the forgotten ghost city
we take a turn towards oblivion,
where you surprised to see me?
under the leaves of an old tree
contrasting the projects brick buildings
incessant rain flows from our eyes
like a fluent turbulent river
wondering if I should build an ark
or if it would be worth the pain
and take a wild shot in the dark
and save us both from this fast sinking boat
how did we even navigated the sea of love
without lifesavers to keep us afloat?
How did we lost what was so hard find?
Smells like gun powder every second of my life
my emotional ammo gets packed on an old Colt 45
a revolver that turns back the hands of time
I'll measure every word, retracing every step,
without derailing my train of thought
inhaling the gun powder
like the ashes of this love
trying to give my Spotless Mind
Eternal Sunshine at long last
in the basement tied to a chair
I came to find myself...
barely clutching my fate in one hand
and what's left of my conscience on the shelf.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 3:06 PM UTC
Oh my self-loathing is disgustingly indulgent, It destroys my health
I wallow with glee for hours in the pits of my own self-hatred
Everything I do say and see I use as ammo in an endless war against myself
Repulsive, ********
Excentric , erratic
Shy, fake, problematic
I wish I had a plug hole
In the soupy head of mine
That I could just pull out
And all the darkness would go down the drain and I’d be fine
But my fansty world turns on me
And casts shadows on others
I don’t see them in their true light
As my fellow sisters and brothers
By day the world grinds in my head
An endless mill of screams
By night by actions haunt me
In rancid vivid dreams
This assemblage of stupid attributes that is me
Follows this girl around relentlessly
Too fixated on yourself, you selfish *****
You hate everyone else and make them a demon or a witch
This demon lives inside the gray matter that is your brain
It turns any sunny day into melancholic rain
I will live alone with no comfort but my own insanity
I see those on the streets who do the same and fear that destiny
After all,
Is madness not a sane response to the collective psychosis that is society?
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
Let me tell you something
About life as seen on TV
It may appear ideal
But that ain’t the way it should be
The goodie has no end of ammo
The baddie is never in with a shout
But in our world today
It’s always the good guy who loses out
He loses out to the ********
The puff with the SUV.
The girls drop a nice one instantly
For a flutter of profanity.
The ***** always get laid
While the dude’s left out to dry
And for all that goodness he’s got
He’s alone a lot and why?
It’s a question I asked myself
For years and years to come
To the conclusion that all winners
Are deadbeats, jerks and ****
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
When the ashes fall
And all is thought lost
the ammo runs low,
white flags are almost raised
When your legs give out
your dreams almost fade
Remember,..
The pain
Blood
The rivers of sorrow
Flooded from the oceans of regret
The anger inside your caged heart
Roaring clawing its way
It's not fear not misery
Nor sorrow or regret,
No…
This is you
The bravery breaking fear
Faith over anxiety
One day you will see
Those who doubt you are afraid of you
One day,
You will see the world through your eyes
Not there's
Just wait.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
prepare for the high gates to fall.
for the great bowl of us
to submerge under stolen soul waves
& atomic guts.
the seven year tribes; or
fissure of statehoods and broods and brother against brother.
end drenched in whisky blood,
& desperado cheese.
fungus.
[the rebellion kids] with their drums and sling-shots,
get their throats cut in the open street sweet heat
& blitzkrieg.
all first-born hearts plucked
from atop the great pyramid, preserved, and in
frosted time-capsules.
yet the leopards remain healthy.
while cities plunge into putrefaction &/or
radioactive ****
from **** to corner to tomahawk
in skull death note.
beaten back to the parking-lot of a best western;
in the battle of sacramento;
is an ammo-less infantry drummer,
& a bleeding medic.
they laugh and snap morphine tips
in the revelry of their final formations.
moon crescent
slows and all the woods liven with flocks of small children.
they live on plant sugars, wild
mushroom and boiled water.
they hide in caves of ancient etch;
old time-gone man & woman & buffalo.
they hunt owls with homemade crossbows
& cook the meat on holy spits.
grinding the little bones
into tincture rubbed beneath their eyes.
this, to exhume an astral essence.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
Fighter jets in formation
Above Ekeberg Hill
Remind me of years
Spent on airbases
During my time in the
Royal Norwegian Air Force.
I was stationed at NATO's
Northernmost base during 9/11.
Minutes after plane #2,
I was upgraded to
NATO Top Secret
Clearance.
Given live ammo for my P80.
Witnessing the colonel's
Marlboro Light shake in his
Usually steady hand as I
Approached; MSO briefcase
Handcuffed to my wrist.
There were papers inside
I was expected to
Die for.
I was 22.
Not even the police carry
Firearms in this country.
Not even the police are expected
To give up ghost over information.
For a nation of such ******
History, we maintain a mellow
Attitude.
We choose peace over "piece".
Gun-sense over violent nonsense.
Naïve? Maybe.
There are nearly no shootings here.
We've had one lethal act of
Terrorism since WWII.
We can live with that.
Literally.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Mud goes so stiff as it dries on the clothes
And it gets in the rifles and ammo
And men live in the mud for day after day
And they die there as the death tolls just grow.
The lads call it Wipers, but we know it’s called Ypres
And we don’t know the language but know mud
And the massive field guns that are firing this way
Causing lots of men to stay here for good.
In two months I’ve not heard the sound of a bird
With the fighting and dying you don’t listen
But I saw a dead blackbird lying out in the mud
And memories of home made my eyes glisten.
I’d rather be back at my home on the farm
Tending cattle and working the land
But I’m lying here shooting at men I don’t know
In a hard ****** war that I don’t understand.
We’ll soon be coming to the end of this year
We were told that it wouldn’t last too long
I don’t know how much longer the men can last out
The spirits willing but their bodies aren’t strong.
We’ve been pounded for hours, we’ve been pounded for days
It seems like so long and it’s so cold
There are men who've got frostbite and gangrene and sores
But it’s the dysentery that makes some men fold.
When will it end and who will make peace
They’re decisions that aren't made at the front
But by men back at home who think they know best
Not by poor dying men bearing the brunt.
©JRW2014
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC