Some would say I'm too young to die,
That doesn't mean they won't try.
But instead she's saying goodbye.
Now it's Gale that is our food supply.
And I sometimes dare to wonder why,
We simply sit quietly and comply.
.::.
I watch the sacrificial lambs parade.
Smile as I see her hallmark braid.
With a capitol stylist's kindly aid,
A fighter born is how she's portrayed.
And her skills are tested and weighed,
Eleven is the number they've displayed.
.::.
I watch as she's thrown into a war.
Spilling blood is something I abhor,
But I want her back as before,
So her kills I explain away or ignore.
I cuddle Buttercup on the floor,
Wondering what else is in store.
.::.
Her wondrous victory is not the end,
Into war our country will descend.
Her injuries I too-often attend.
Her anger I will try to amend.
I can't forget it's on her we depend,
She is hunter, victor, and friend.