A storm is brewing, 
then war is chewing 
on everyone, 
CRACK, a gun. 
It doesn't matter who 
fired first, them or you; 
Everybody 
will be bloody. 
Missiles launching, 
medics staunching 
the flow of blood, 
whistling, THUD. 
Now they've gone and done it, 
or was it us who had a fit, 
we're over the top, 
and there is no stop. 
A blinding glare, 
radiation there; 
a thunderous ROAR 
Death's in store. 
And after all our violent toils, 
no one's here to claim the spoils. 
The wasteland left 
Of life's bereft. 

May 13, 1985