Oh, desert storm, no second land
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My son of sand, my trusting hand
The words, they hush into the sweeping fan
that keeps their tank-room cool
They roll nightly tuned, over tapioca pools
into your broken homes, two by two
picking up your red, whites and blues
Fold me up in berlap sacks
No time to think, you can't go back
The street calls you out, a wayward still
Caught up in the palms, a slipping gun, a better pill
So don't turn back, not the slightest bit
Light one up, and take your pick
this clever stick does
Happy Birthday tricks
Blow me up and take a lick
And we'll mourn those who tolled
their final 'click'..
and you'll never see the headlines
buried beneath the bricks.
- Krista Bruce.
"no matter where you go, there you are."