Fernando Smith





Poetry 3



 The tanks are in the street

 bloated with broken young men

 hoping for an open heart

 a garland of poppies

 they are tired of the war

 and could do with

 a soft bottom to fondle

 maybe drink wine

 from a delicate glass


 So, with the ancient hatred of                                                                        

 the colonised

 we lob a couple more grenades

 at the bastards

 curse their children’s children

 burn their generals alive

 bury them all in a nameless pit


 Pity the aggressors

 forever tied to the same story





Oy, Genghis...


(click on an image to enlarge)

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