Ode to a Blackhawk
Zephyter0
Of all the things to survive the war,
Nothing should surprise one more,
Than the little violin,
Hidden silent, deep within
A vaukt built only for musicians.
Who, in their violent renditions
Kept it somehow I believe,
In good condition just to leave.
To go back to her nice shack
Used to add onto the stack
Of Agatha's statipn upon the air
Proving for all that she does care
But not yet is it now complete
Pen has not yet touched a sheet
Of music paper hidden away
In the saddest place today
An elementary school – no bore
Raiders turned it into an eyesore
Clear them out (a feat in that)
And bring the sheets of music back
Ask her then for your reward,
Her husband's gun, his skill outpoured.
This machine, through pain and strife,
It is the blackhawk and it means life.