Originally Posted by therewolf
I think I'd be pretty OK with that. I'd be telling myself
that the target was the reason every insect in creation was
using my aching , itching, sweltering butt for a smorgasbord,
while I couldn't even swat or scratch...
I think that all of you guys on the forum would like this. I have recently written and published a book of poetry. One poem, titled "The Sniper" was inspired by my son who was a sniper in Afghanistan. Of course he wouldn't give me any details about what he did other than to say that he had attended sniper school. Being that I own the copy right to the poem, I give myself and this forum permission to reproduce it here. It is from the book "O'Sullivan's Place, the Poerty of Joe Robert," and is available on Amazon. Hope you like it.
He crawls through ferns and thick green grass
Toward the enemy he has found at last
With all his stealth he has learned through drills
His orders are to record his kills.
He continues on and ignores the pain
Of thorn ridden stems in his new domain.
He finally reaches his vantage point
With a single bullet he hopes to anoint
The enemy he is drawing closer to
His brassy shine cartridge looks as new.
He closes the bolt on his .308
He must time his shot and not be late.
His job is done now he must retreat
He finds no glory in his accomplished feat.
The sniper finished his mission as he was ordered to
Yet feeling remorse as he was want to do
Cannot be tolerated in this time of war
And this whole situation seems so bizarre
Yet this sniper has to take it all in stride
And the result is freedom in which we all abide.