My bed, the battlefield

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The voice in the sky is silent,
but us old timers smell the scent
of a war a-brewin’.

Them and us don’t see eye to eye,
and they been fixin’ to teach us
a lesson for a while now.

So we’re digging deep under
warm, fuzzy cover, burrowing
beyond reach of the troops

of wakey-wakey, rise and shine,
of chores to do, people to see,
of adulthood – their terms.

By Pedro Simões from Lisboa, Portugal (Creative Commons)

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