Toy Soldier

Ever since I was a little boy,

As young as I can remember, 

My Ma has said,

I'm her soldier toy,

From January to December.

She would read to me,

And act out,

Her bizarre and wild stories, 

That would somehow always involve,

A young cock and nighttime glories.

From a fearful dagger,

Waiting for that first unsheath,

To the proud knights helmet,

The revelation from underneath.

The swing of the warrior's sword,

Grown solid to her grip,

To parry and lunge,

Between breast and unyielding tip.

It would be a mighty cannon,

Or a horsemans sturdy lance,

A marksmans trusty rifle,

Aimed ready for every advance.

The balls stored the ammunition,

And when I was old enough to fire,

She would teach me the drills,

To reach the victory of her desire.

Then she was the lamplit Nightingale,

To mop all that battle spilled,

Drinking in the hard fought spoils,

That bedtime duties always fulfilled.