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Sunday, May 24, 2015

TOY SOLDIERS NO MORE








This is the foreword that I wrote for the anthology  Satan's Toybox: Toy Soldiers a number of years back for Angelic Knight Press. As you read it and the poem I wrote, reflect on what so many gave for your freedoms.

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     I had a hunch when we came up with the idea for Satan's Toybox: Toy Soldiers that we would receive some very diverse stories, with a number of them saluting the sacrifices of our fighting men, now and past. My hunch was totally correct. We have stories of majestic warriors, giving their all so we can remain free.

     This anthology is dedicated to one such man: Patrick A.Day. Mr. Day served his country for many years, spending time in Vietnam with other warriors, and deserves more accolades than I could ever bestow upon him. Stacey Turner, my Editor and CEO for Angelic Knight Press, is his daughter. She is very proud of him. So am I. 

     Patrick A. Day, thank you for your service to your country and to your fellow man. I applaud you. You and I know about the evils of
Satan's Toybox: Toy Soldiers.  Fact or fiction? We know. 
      



Toy Soldiers No More




One night that I remember well,
with fire inside my heart does swell,
'tis one that we went off to war,
to land of oh, so distant shore.

What makes men think they have the right,
to choose the fate of those who fight?
Sitting in their iv'ry towers,
as bullets share horrid showers.

Bad decisions do circle 'round,
no answers from our leaders found,
as men are led down paths to die,
while others for their sins should fry.

Fresh Lieutenants just out of school,
so green and scared their faces drool,
leading troops in to Hell's own fray,
not knowing what the Devil will say.

Hardened Sergeants must give their all,
so that their troops will not all fall.
They're privy to the ways of war,
within both heart and inner core.

While Lyndon Johnson moves his men,
toy soldiers, unknown origin,
across a battlefield of sand,
set up inside a White House stand.

For here it's safe to guess what might,
be good o'er there to win the fight.
If truth be known, he has no clue,
no hows or whats that he should do.

Into the hands and minds of those
who put them there God only knows.
West Point hacks with no credentials,
for this job have no essentials.

This war is dif'frent from before,
guerrilla tactics come to bore.
And hit and run is now the game,
as our commanders stand in shame.

They all act like our men are toys,
mission only, devoid of joys,
marionettes with broken strings,
hapless sparrows with injured wings.

To tell the enemy apart
from those who hold us in their heart
grows tougher, harder ev'ry day
as blacks and whites turn shades of gray.

The fighting ever more grows worse
while men fall under Satan's curse,
and leaders tear apart 'ere more
as terror grips their inner core.

But there are those who fight the fear,
bringing courage to those so near
to utter desolation's edge,
and keep their men from Devil's ledge.

As Lyndon B. does play his game,
true soldiers will not be so lame,
for this is war and oh so real,
their men from Hell they work to steal.

Patrick Day and others like him
will not be pawns upon the rim
of far-off, late night games of chance,
while others join in evil's dance.

I tip my hat to these brave men,
admiring them, God bless, amen.
Toy soldiers they will never be,
their lives to give for you and me.



Blaze McRob

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