The drummer boy taps his drum
As hollow as the shells that
Run down this hill we protect
With only the hair on the backs of our necks
Singed by the bombs I set off with our flares.
Ironic, once again,
Congruent to what was made pretend.
Will appearances to fear the worst
Adjust before the bubbles burst?
Tell the drummer boy to keep the roll soft,
Either the ether calmed our meager troops
Or the Dealer has come to revoke our youth.
No comments:
Post a Comment