You wear a vest, ammunition, carry a rifle
And patrol the streets at daytime
Through the bazaars and the flower markets.
You develop a sixth sense about you.
This war was meant to be a victory.
And you have been a borrowing miser for so long
Living on canned soup, cigarettes and pictures
Of a hazel-eyed beauty, from the American south.
You look out every day, to an arras of poppies
And before you know it, spoon and paper find you.
And you have developed a nose
For a pyrrhic triumph.
Your opiate-engined opium dreams.