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Tuesday, February 16, 2010

War Correspondent In a Junkyard [Poem]

War Correspondent In a Junkyard

The vet with reddish laser-eyes
Possessed a sign: “Will kill for fuel.”
A tragic end for flying spies
And rifle-bots we don't retool.
I asked the bots about the war.
The Predator? Its circuits smoked—
His pal explained his hardware core
Just broke, his combat role revoked.
The Talon spoke in monotone,
It whirred; it said that war was great—
It knew in war that one must hone
The soldiers pliant, not with hate
Or love—just routine death and gore.
And now we mostly can't stand war,
But bots enjoy what we abhor.
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