Warm Gun

Found a blue book,
Broken blue spine.
A poem in the cover,
Didn't even rhyme.

It was by a boy about his father
Who went off to the war.
It was about how the hatred
Cut him to the core.

Killing innocent people,
Death at his hand,
Father trudged on.
Following every order, following every command.

Bible in his pocket,
Picture of his son
But nothing could give him hope,
Until the war was finally won.

In the barracks at night;
He cried and cried.
People spoke of war being glory:
All of them lied.

"Why, oh why not love,
but hate?
This world is ours,
think of what we could create."

But glory is power
and power is glory
And so must be
this sad World's story.

Happiness is a warm gun.