Page 452
By Jack Joseph Smith
My forearm is a club, not for
war, I was born thar way
Go ahead make your decisions
concerning my fate,, you thing
I don't need an excuse,, you
really beleave the first rabbitt
I killed isn't better thar you
We don't car about the field
and having our chances
Locked in; that's fear
The quiet life, you think
the warror knows not how
to go blind
It is that is so much less
when you are done
With all people, even those
who have never left, stopping
turns into a dream