poetic scribble by Bob Axell 2009


All these friends we make
It is this wretched fate
Keeps us all awake too late
Due to the plans that flake

Down in our open sky
In the middle of the night
Just to slice snowflakes
With their sizable rakes

I don't care much about
The weaponry we spit out
I don't care much for
The soldiers knocking on my door

Spend my day on the floor
With the bullets floating over
Stay strong and get along
With the third worlds soldiers

my Friend