The steel-cold kobold,
Peddle on frost-bitten roads.
Before the vendors of those,
Who sell fried chicken.
Or Kebaby’s where it may get stabby.
Or any classic backdrop of a modern urban tragedy.
The counter-culture soldier says to another;
“I thought we were leaving all the gear with your brother?
And we’d be getting no more calls or bother?
If I have to do a bird who will take care of my mother?”
Because the counter-culture soldier is an only son,
Of a weary single mother whose best has come undone.
And we all know this isn’t a question of just one;
That bought the lie of power from a little white square,
With freedom or a life the price for peddling the gear.
But there is little turnover in preaching to the choir,
Cos profit is the motive for the scene yet to transpire.
Easy to take aim at the youth gone wrong.
Hard to ask ourselves where all the drugs come from.
Scene ends, the counter-culture soldier has laid his life down.
Common consequence when handling the White and the Brown.
His eulogy is held over broadcasting silence.
Soul lost to a war not in Iraq or Northern Ireland.
But who will mourn this soldier when they put him in the ground?
No gun salute, just the sirens sound.
Another young soldier will replicate this life.
The same tale in this jungle, another concrete slice.