The Worst of Men

Ours was a small and sleepy town
Locked between the hills
A place where people lived
Midst clapboard houses and dusty streets
Where time passed without a thought
Where fathers smoked in khaki pants
As we ran and raced
Beneath summer’s warm wind
Far from the violence of war’s din
And a place named Afghanistan
Far from the place death stalks prey
And children go slow and silent
Among the mines
With playmates missing limbs
From things they find
Hidden like the hate that made them
Like the hate that laid them
Beneath the summer sand
Vipers lusting to strike
For the sake of some foolish fight
Between the worst of men
Born for the flames of hell
So shall they ever dwell
Who stole small legs and arms
Laughing at the thought of breaking hearts
Changing everyone
Everyone, - who had one.

Copyright 2007
Stan Simons/ASCAP