The children herald the bombardiers,
as they march through the town, resplendent.
The children offer the bombardiers
their drawings, their scrap iron, and their kisses.
The children step like bombardiers,
near the recruiting station
(for the children will be the bombardiers).
The children pray for the bombardiers
as they peek at their shiny black guns.
The children send the bombardiers
off to the war in waves.
The children await the bombardiers
listening for the sound of engines.
The children shrink from the bombardiers
when the whistles turn into thunder.
And the children cry and are sad indeed
as the arms fall away from their mothers.
The children have nothing for the bombardiers,
but fall apart like sticks and stones.
The children welcome the bombardiers
who come home to brass and ticker.
The children bewail the bombardier
who’ve drowned, under the ocean.
The children turn to their pals and say,
“the bombardiers are back today.”