He lines them up,
all in a row,
those that will stay
and those who will go.
They’re ready and armed,
they’ll fight to the death,
giving all that they have
’till their very last breath.
He shouts the word ‘Fire!’
and with a swoosh a row falls,
he smiles as he makes the sounds
of guns and canon balls.
His hands play God to a sea
of little green plastic men,
his eyes see glory to be
when he can fight like them.
Across a field of flannel
they march to a war of wars,
across the bed, over the pillow
to die on the hardwood floor.
He hears their cries of agony
he smells the smoke and fear
but he knows not families waiting
so he doesn’t shed a tear.
His eyes alight with wonder
he watches brave men fall
his army of plastic soldiers
waiting for their General’s call.
It’s down to the last two men now,
face to face, across the flannel field,
“Fire!†and they both fall down,
I wonder if he knows the blood is real.
