The leather shotgun holster, boot polish black,
A cocked rifle, loaded!
Both barrels, polished for
A smooth shot.

The pride man holds over their weapons of war,
Or is it mearly the pride of tradition?

Mother, mature and aged watches cricket
(With others of that sort)

Fathers back,

The look on the boy,
Mesmerised by the actions of his father.
His hands carry dead limp bodies,
Now tainted with the blood of the innocent.

"Shoot son"
Wanted him to be strong, be a man a real man

And ike a bullet through a flock of doves,
His conscience lies crippled.



By Steven Thurlow
4/02/05