The first time you shot a gun, you were seven.
The smell of gunpowder filled your nose.
The sound of Sammy crying filled your ears.
You threw down the gun.
A drop of his tears wet your shirt.
A glare from your father stooped your shoulders.
You went back to the gun,
A good little soldier.
The first time you went on a hunt, you were twelve.
The smell of rancid flesh filled your nose.
The sound of terrible screeching filled your ears.
You froze in terror.
A monster leaped towards your father.
A cry of pain forced your movement.
You finished the monster off,
A good little soldier.
The first time Sammy left, you were seventeen.
The smell of cheap alcohol filled the room.
The sound of Dad's yelling filled your ears.
You hung your head.
A lead in Flagstaff gave you hope.
A chance to regain your father's trust.
You found your little brother,
A good little soldier.
The second time Sammy left, you were twenty-two.
The smell of his soap had left the house.
The sound of his voice had faded away.
You felt lost without him.
A hunt in the woods masked your pain.
A stint in the hospital eased it away.
You became a machine,
A good little soldier.
The last time Sammy left, you were twenty-seven.
His body was starting to stink.
His last words were ringing in your ears.
You were terrified.
A talk with his corpse strengthened your resolve.
A trip the crossroads solved the problem.
You sold your soul to save him,
A good little soldier.