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Toy Soldiers

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  • Chris G. Vaillancourt+
    Toy SoldiersThe trumpets sound. Bold noise in early morning air. Waking the dead. Waking those about to die. Another battle begins in the never-ending game of
    Message 1 of 2 , Sep 8, 2010
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      Toy Soldiers

      The trumpets sound. Bold noise in
      early morning air.
      Waking the dead.
      Waking those about to die.
      Another battle begins
      in the never-ending game
      of military parades.
      Toy soldiers, in a little boys mind.
      Lined up in neat compact rows.
      Plastic guns and plastic minds
      conditioned by visions
      of old men's speeches.
      'Arise, young valiant ones' shouts the
      television screens.
      'Go forth, brave sons and kill
      all those who disagree'.
      Toy battles in a little boys game.
      Lines and lines of paper mache hearts
      controlled by the propaganda machines.
      Flashes of smoke; planes overhead.
      The enemy, just straight ahead.
      Toy people in an illusionary game.
      Pretending that lines exist
      in the dirt.
      One side of the line is ours, the other theirs.
      One side of the mind is empty, the other straw.
      Toy victims in a mental institution world,
      where fabric emblems are
      waved in hypnotic fury.
      'Defend the flag, boys! ' yells the
      old man with the stars.
      'Die for this symbol, kill for this cause.'
      Toy soldiers lined up in rows.
      Toy people pretending to be real.

      In a distant place there is a wall.
      It was built by visionary dreamers.
      Behind the wall there are flowers.
      The flowers are shaded by trees.
      God's bountiful gifts gently
      growing in the sun.
      Two men sat on a bench,
      inside this distant garden.
      They were silently enjoying
      the beauty of the morning.
      Both men decided they wanted
      to pick the same rose.
      They argued, they debated,
      they presented their cause.
      One man tired of the verbal disagreement.
      Picked up a stone. Murdered the other man.
      Now the rose was all his.
      He was the victor!
      His cause was just!
      His cause was right!

      He stood up, his prize in hand;
      danced a dance of victory bells.
      Danced his macabre version of hell
      in a garden full of roses.

      Toy soldiers in a little boys mind.



      ****************************************
      Chris G. Vaillancourt+

    • Chris G. Vaillancourt+
      Toy Soldiers  The trumpets sound. Bold noise in  early morning air.  Waking the dead.  Waking those about to die.  Another battle begins  in the
      Message 2 of 2 , Sep 30, 2010
      • 0 Attachment
        Toy Soldiers 




        The trumpets sound. Bold noise in 
        early morning air. 
        Waking the dead. 
        Waking those about to die. 
        Another battle begins 
        in the never-ending game 
        of military parades. 
        Toy soldiers, in a little boys mind. 
        Lined up in neat compact rows. 
        Plastic guns and plastic minds 
        conditioned by visions 
        of old men's speeches. 
        'Arise, young valiant ones' shouts the 
        television screens. 
        'Go forth, brave sons and kill 
        all those who disagree'. 
        Toy battles in a little boys game. 
        Lines and lines of paper mache hearts 
        controlled by the propaganda machines. 
        Flashes of smoke; planes overhead. 
        The enemy, just straight ahead. 
        Toy people in an illusionary game. 
        Pretending that lines exist 
        in the dirt. 
        One side of the line is ours, the other theirs. 
        One side of the mind is empty, the other straw. 
        Toy victims in a mental institution world, 
        where fabric emblems are 
        waved in hypnotic fury. 
        'Defend the flag, boys! ' yells the 
        old man with the stars. 
        'Die for this symbol, kill for this cause.' 
        Toy soldiers lined up in rows. 
        Toy people pretending to be real. 

        In a distant place there is a wall. 
        It was built by visionary dreamers. 
        Behind the wall there are flowers. 
        The flowers are shaded by trees. 
        God's bountiful gifts gently 
        growing in the sun. 
        Two men sat on a bench, 
        inside this distant garden. 
        They were silently enjoying 
        the beauty of the morning. 
        Both men decided they wanted 
        to pick the same rose. 
        They argued, they debated, 
        they presented their cause. 
        One man tired of the verbal disagreement. 
        Picked up a stone. Murdered the other man. 
        Now the rose was all his. 
        He was the victor! 
        His cause was just! 
        His cause was right! 

        He stood up, his prize in hand; 
        danced a dance of victory bells. 
        Danced his macabre version of hell 
        in a garden full of roses. 

        Toy soldiers in a little boys mind.

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