Tables Turned

Sitting with a witches brew,
Our backs against the wall
Sausage on our favorite bread,
A treat to end our toil

Talking easy and well relaxed,
Us winding down the day
We didn’t expect the stunning ‘crack’,
And the shower of high-speed stone.

From hunter to the hunted,
We dove down really deep
The rifles, they were out of reach
As was all our kit.

Then from within a can of smoke
Was thrown above our heads
And with a lung filled choke or two
We scrambled into the inn.

For those of you who spent their days
With crosshairs as their friend
It very sorely made the point
That no one should ever miss.

A new day and we’re out again
With anger in our hearts
Payback’s a bitch they were to find
As that day we hit hard.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in combat stress, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.