The Road To "KANDAHAR".


You, with your neat picket fence

And freshly mown lawn.

Where only the occasional daisy

Pokes through.

Sedately content

You survey your domain.

While I, ignored by the passing thrall

I sit on this dusty plain

My withered limbs

Say it all

Too sick to move

I await Kismet.

As far as the eye can see

Caught in the dying sun’s rays

The glint and glitter

Of the death that surrounds me

Thousands of miles away

You decide my fate.

‘Tis not gold that’s a lying

But the brass casing’s

Left in pitiful piles

From the lead that’s been flying

Too scared to close my eyes

Should I not wake.

The sky fills with death

While the ground trembles

No trace they’ll find

Of my insignificant bones

Ramadan’s done

‘Tis the time of Christ.

All this

While you reach for your morning coffee.

As I lay dying

On the road to Kandahar

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Bob Hope at least got Jane Russell when he was on the roads.

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