Prom night and the stars glowed just for us

We danced to music we’ve forgotten now

I grew to be a killer of men, you a healer,

neither could heal the wounds of battle

life battles where blood flows in jungles,

deserts, mountains, Chicago streets and back alleys.

Seems no one can control their trigger fingers

Their lust for satisfaction

Our children like dry sticks break beneath black boots

Swastika loving boys, bald and dumb.

Now destiny is a dry urn and a clean blanket

For the final sleeping, sweet final sleep.