Minor Flame

Nothing worse than Whitey from a different country idly writing pretentious poetry about events thousands of miles away. But hey, spirit of the season eh?

A flying fist is a fiery thing
A thousand tanks are not

A dying child makes good print
A thousand dead just rot

An explosive flash in a quiet town
is every anchor’s dream

But a minor flame
on a cold, dark night
is everybody’s shame.

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