By Cian O'Boyle, 1st year.
Commissioned I was in December 80,
of steel and ash I was quite weighty.
From a factory in Turkistan my life’s journey began,
in a container out of Kazakhstan.
Over the sea to North Africa,
where I rested for a short while in Libya.
Then on again over seas of sand,
until we parted again from dry land.
North we headed with Atlantic seas,
until we reached a damper breeze.
From my container I was removed to a van,
under scattered tools another phase of my journey began.
Never heard much talk, never felt bare hands, always moving, never left to stand.
On rare occasions my trigger was pulled and I burst into life to do no good.
I only came out for very short whiles,
and whenever I did nobody smiled.
Death and destruction was all that I left,
until returned to dark, damp depths.
There I lay for my last few years,
until brought to the surface to muffled ears.
A Canadian General with one other there stood,
angle grinder in hand and a notebook.
The last that I felt was the vice grip closing,
before the angle grinder began to end my reposing.
Into bits I was cut, a sad looking sight,
a Canadian General just removed all my might.