The wounded medal
As close as berets and machine guns go,
the Claus has pickets and witty ones for.
Round and round the tip curve lead.
Flat and round the base turned and fed.
Into the line of sight the moving ducks bide.
Through the iron sight, the eyeing mucks wide.
Cleansing the field, pillages and weeding
yet the lands lay lifeless and bleeding.
Like hails, and stones from an angry mob,
the bronze leads flew the prairie scope.
Showering down like Irma, Katrina,
one by one fell flat in ocarina.
Valour and medals that shines through ages
hide the scars and parts that whines homages.
Horrors and nightmares that abide within
aren’t forgotten by those who are pithing.
Image source: https://goo.gl/NueC4T