Many Nights Of Bombs
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Piper King, Grade 8
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Poetry
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2013
Our little dark cellar,
'twas like a second bedroom to I.
Mother and father, they'd shove us down here,
Little brother, little sister and I.
Huddled in there, we sat.
Nothing to entertain us, but a little rat.
Of course the high whistling sounds,
And shuddering grounds,
Always led to the imagination.
Do these bombers find blowing innocent's stuff up,
A recreation?
Our poor little ramshackle house,
The explosions would give quite the rouse.
Little sister, little brother, and I,
Sat down ere, for what felt like forever.
little brother was mute in terror,
little sister about to cry,
Waiting for the bombs to pass us by.
Just wait, Ma would say, and wait some more,
Until the siren sounds, then your know for sure,
The danger, is no more.