RHYME

The words of war have no rhyme

many of them  not worth a dime

our losses will never fade in time

all those lives lost on the line

always haunted, never being fine

pictures so clear, seen by the blind

weighing forever on our minds

so many lost before their prime

will not commit crime

going out to dine

a good place I will find

if it has a large sign

should be home by nine

I pulled up a vine

had a glass of good wine

a book I must bind

it's pages are lined

got grass to lime

this poem is all mine

each line is a grind

am getting behind

I should be fined

so please be kind