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