Green Umbrellas

Competing for raw glory.

A confederate poke.

A punch of pacifist

With crass commercialism

Stands in the kitchen,

While the family squats

At the dining table.

The scraps of the years meals

Being piled for incineration.

Even the well-fed hounds beg,

And the homeless scribe while

Thinking about previous times,

Where puppies yelp and armour piercing rounds

Are stacked high.

Even the young dolls eyes sting and

Water from the grime and soot from

The smoke stacks next to the toy store

Which only sells green umbrellas and plastic machine guns.