We bring cerebral landmines and exploding minds.
We are pleased to aim, though no accuracy is required.
Shake the sad sniper's hand,
the forlorn fellow with a pointless collection of bones,
who sits on an inornate throne of bush and camouflage.
"My sight is broken."
His sight is broken, and he doesn't have the range.
"I don't have the range to hit them before they hit the fallow fields,
the workers."
They look so downcast as they harvest the shrapnel patch,
and one bends over to pick up his hand to pick more fruit of the turmoil-- which tills and churns the soil-- and his torso falls off.
He looks up and laughs with a mouthful of dirt, discombobulated.
"No, no. This isn't home at all."
The dysfunctional overlord drives them on with nary a shot
or vodka.
The artist crumples up the paper, but it doesn't have the range
to reach the trashcan--
"No good. Maybe next season."
-- and the worker can't help but feel incomplete.
It's crap. I know.
1 comment:
Eh, I'd say just take out the bit about the sniper then start at 'so downcast' and with a bit of rearranging and plucking out the extraneous words you'll have yourself something right pretty.
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