On Trojan Sands

There are soldiers in our midsts,

Some of which our women.

They might throw a hissy-fit

Or be cool as lemon

Dunked in water icy-deep,

Healing to the core

All that want and need of sleep

Smelting iron ore.

On our streets they heal us some,

Calming deadly nerves,

Playing smart or playing dumb,

Synced to every verb.

So attuned are they to rage,

They can feel it coming.

With one look they see that cage

And hear that ancient humming

Coursing thru our angered blood

At some Pizza Hut.

One will fall: the likely dud.

Yes, at Pizza Hut.