The Tin Soldier Poem by Tiffanie Lein

7 April 2008

My commander is merely three foot one
Big and strong but not so smart,
So proud he only works alone
But fighting our war isn't his art.

He pushes me against my enemy
Dressed up in maroon and white.
But my gun don't shoot e'en for a penny
So like a stick it's used to fight.

Today Commander's four feet tall,
And walks right by my face.
Ignores my salute and call,
As though his memory: erased.

Years past, I sulk in a box
Right beside the man I fought
I wish upon him a pox,
But without a command, I'm nought.

Alas, a bright white light,
And the comfort of a hand.
That picks me up to fight,
With bravery again i stand!

Hold - Why the sudden heat?
Around me crimson flickering
My gun away from my retreats
My face in boils sickening.

My feet's become a gray round ball
Akin the fate of my torso.
My arms are rolled along a thin black wall
Bang! Out it goes with gusto!

I'm next, I fear this dark long pipe
The heat still haunts my soul.
Bang! through wind and rain I'm ripe
To surge a tissue my long goal.

From a restless red tin man,
Now drawing real blood I can.