The Convoy

In a dusty land, far from my heart, I lie in prayer, thankful, for the dark. 

On a clock of 24, it’s 4, 3, and 8; I hear the sounds of voices, of metal, of debate. 

Of coffee black, of milk and eggs, the taste of bitter, the smell of lead.  

The breakfast talk keeps spirits afloat; we lie of deeds and sowing oats.

We check upon our trusted steeds, beautiful dark metal beast, whose touch can freeze. 

The sergeant’s voice cuts through the dark, “Mount up boys! It’s a walk in the park! To the Red White and Blue, to baseball and ballparks! 

I look to the east and see a light, a spark. The red glow of dawn, foretells a day of dark.

In the game of war, it’s them or us; the reaper plays and takes his cut. 

Of 24, it’s 6, 3 and 8; the crash of bolts ends our quiet wait.

 In fields of green, watching birds in flight, my love awaits, she’s beautiful, she’s brown, she’s black, she’s white. 

To an unknown place, we pass through iron gates, at days end; we’ll know our fate.

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