SNIPER
It's midsummer's day and the bullets are flying
Composers and ploughboys and poets are dying
I could be next, or it might well be you
Or perhaps now the sniper, as snipers do
Has got bored with this trench
Or is writing a card to some blond-plaited wench
Or drinking his coffee from a keep-it-warm flask
Before turning again to his afternoon's task
Of picking off folk that have done him no harm
Just like shooting the rats on his father's farm
© nigel hallworth 2014