The B-52

The B-52

Death has an old name

Buff was listed with acclaim

52 was her distinction

Beauty was her fabrication

 

She carried death within her bowls

Never heard from up so high

Metal rain was her game

To claim the total human life

 

She climbs aloft with wings of silver

In clouds of doubt the thunder is heard

At night the light of good is gone

Only death is the bearer of gloom

 

Down below her target is one mile wide

Her eggs to drop will not survive

Ten miles long she covers ground

The earth to raze is baron now

 

Homeward she goes the task is done

Terror has rained the people are gone

The earth now mends its broken back

The Buff is now back in its shack

 

G.D.Gregory (The Bard) 2007