by Nick Gisburne
The rebels teach their children how to fight.
They give them bombs, belligerence, and pride.
The jungle, filled with juveniles, at night,
Becomes a hell, from which their fathers hide.
The pounding of artillery, the smoke,
The rattle of relentless, raking guns,
Are trickeries, deceits designed to cloak
The gleeful games of adolescent sons.
The cheeky bastards, quicker than their kin,
Made peace perhaps a year or two ago.
Their parties, without parents, are a win,
A special secret. No one needs to know.
A fresh offensive, D-Day for the brave.
A teenage DJ drops the beats they crave.
