Grownups

he had a gun in his hand a death ray configured to
vaporize you
and what did you go with your powers but cower in the corner, call base, time-out and shake in your shoes?
and you ran home crying with your x-ray specs on.

feel the stuttered breeze on a weekend.
i could go for peace but mean grownups have
bad eyes and hearts sick of beating.
launch rockets to space the place for all of our armracing.
i will never see the kirghiz light.
latch the shutters, hide under covers and feel safe for the night.

one more thing before we send the rockets up to greet our world invaders:
let's pretend the shoe was on another foot full of slimy martian feet and
wanderlust is wonderful; the martians have a price for everybody
on the flying machine the king has filled with fragile porcelain replicas of everybody
shattered and devoid of inside jokes and mail order novelties for everybody.
he had a gun in his hand; a little plastic toy enough to spread the heebie-jeebies 'round to every girl and boy.