A.N./ This small little thing is the product of post-Mockingjay-feels and boredom. Short, not very sweet, and not very well-written, it is my tribute to the tributes.


For all the children, all those tears,

for every mother's broken home,

for every love transformed to fear,

dissipated into foam,


for every girl who lost her hope,

for every boy who lost his life,

they give to us some scented soap

and broken bread to still our strife.


For every sister volunteered,

for every brother left behind,

they give us animals to fear

and leave us nothing real to find.


For all the hidden city-states,

for all the hidden lover-friends,

they give to us much longer waits

and make us think that there's no end.


For all the twelve-year-olds they killed,

for every flower bloomed too soon,

they come and crush all that we build

and grow the roses 'round us strewn.


For all those years of "May the odds,"

we give to them a ruthless death,

and with the Favor that we won

we shall deliver bloody breath.


For every kill that they had forced,

we'll force our own and draw the vote,

and for every word an Avox voiced

we tear apart each taunting gloat.


And in the book that we have penned

we will write our tribute's names,

to show them that, though we did win,

we can't forget their Hunger Games.