deepundergroundpoetry.com
The wishful soldiers
Here they come,
Them wild eyed innocent boys
Marching down tree lined streets,
with guns aloft and terrified smiles.
The crowd cheers and spill their blood
And scream with patriotic delight.
But I feel isolated,
A stranger watching with alien eyes,
Wondering where are the rich man's sons.
The white shirt and silk tie brigade.
For they will be never on Baghdad lanes,
When the bullets starts to rain.
Now I know what it means;
when you got nothing but a pocketful of dreams.
Them wild eyed innocent boys
Marching down tree lined streets,
with guns aloft and terrified smiles.
The crowd cheers and spill their blood
And scream with patriotic delight.
But I feel isolated,
A stranger watching with alien eyes,
Wondering where are the rich man's sons.
The white shirt and silk tie brigade.
For they will be never on Baghdad lanes,
When the bullets starts to rain.
Now I know what it means;
when you got nothing but a pocketful of dreams.
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