Shaving


The clipper cannon's silent now,
The artillery has done its job well
The enemy lies in shreds, cut down without mercy.
But they are not dead yet

The grief comes to the ones that are clever
They bunker down in the cleft, in cupid's arch.
Our heavy firepower, our preliminary assaults,
They don't even touch the bastards; the ones that dig in deep,
They're the ones for the commandos, the specialists

Nothing for them but to send forces
Directly into those hellish nests and they're waiting for us
They're always waiting for us
Getting there's hard enough, but once we get in. chaos
Tight space, no room to maneuver, nowhere to retreat
Tension, chaos, friendly fire, and blood
So unlike the clean precision of the earlier waves

Sometimes, I think they're laughing at us as they die
So many of us go into those hellish nooks
So few of us come out and the ones that do
Only have a short future to look forward to
Before the next war, the next time they are called in

We've seen so much blood, and it doesn't matter
How many times you staunch the flow with tissue paper
There will always be more-in a day, in a week.
In the end, it doesn't matter-our lot is never-ending war
Because the bastards always come back
They are not dead yet, they will never be dead

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This Poems Story

This literally came to me after a long battle of shaving my face. I thought, "My, this is a real battle." The rest came naturally.