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The vagabond snipers

I met one once...

"A vagabond sniper".

He was old, in his sixties / seventies.

In military garb, and homeless.

Drunk too, completely...

And laughing in his precision glee of murderous ways.

I couldn't believe my concerns...

Realising this man was off his fecking tits,

By a doorway, in the open, with a history of high precision military kills to his name.

At least, according to his tongue...

Which was cackling with authenticity and dangerous history full of military experience.

You might think it unlikely...

But it's not unlikely...

Given the number of soldiers who suffered PTSD in the wars from America and England, causing them to end up on the streets.

He was a completely deranged man.

But was he unhappy?

No, he wasn't.

He was away with the fairies, and cackling quite happily to himself.

So as I walked away,

I was humbled...

Concerned for a moment I might be his enemy,

For unknown reasons...

And he shoot me too with a precision bullet from out of God knows where...

I wondered...

'How 'professional killer' must his life have been, to find such gladness laughing in tatty clothes on the street...


Sitting in dog shit...'

And then I realised...

The apex of the alternative conscii planes...

In believing men.

And how both are tolerated,

Under the allied defence council...

As something legitimate.

When you know what you're doing.

About this poem

A tribute to the maddest, baddest, boldest men in Christendom, who fought long and hard with precision for a world some of them even enjoyed.

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Submitted by urbanspaceforce on November 10, 2022

1:30 min read

Quick analysis:

Scheme A X X X B X X A X X A B B X X B C X X X B X X X X C X X X X X X
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 1,390
Words 297
Stanzas 32
Stanza Lengths 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1

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