Minor Flame
Nothing worse than Whitey from a different country idly writing pretentious poetry about events thousands of miles away. But hey, spirit of the season eh?
A flying fist is a fiery thing
A thousand tanks are not
A dying child makes good print
A thousand dead just rot
An explosive flash in a quiet town
is every anchor’s dream
But a minor flame
on a cold, dark night
is everybody’s shame.
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