Combat Verse

Locked and cocked with cordite’s stink,
Ranged at war with truth, my curse,
I pull the trigger of my ink,
And fire off a well-aimed verse,

Then cower like a putrid soul
From death’s scythe, all grand and mighty,
And rest atop my stanza’s knoll,
Before risking absurdity.

While trading cover for a chance
To challenge fate and free my land,
The pen strikes words as if they dance
Across my arm and down my hand,

To fight a battle in the trench
Against an evil enemy.
While ‘round the pen my hand doth clench
To write of writers’ victory.