If you’re a producer of land-mines
and plant them in field to harvest death,
be careful keep your child indoor
and watch where you walk tonight
it could be that someone decides to bring
this left-behind-war to your doorsteps.

When you, on an early morning walk on your
pristine lawn to smell the roses- Boom!
If you’re lucky you’ll die, if not
you’ll lose all your limbs, be blinded and strapped to a chair,
so you can’t even commit suicide.

Be careful, hire low paid refugees to comb your garden,
before daylight, but be sure
than none of them have got an artificial leg,
because the one who has
could be your nemesis
seeking your demise.

When you smell the roses- Boom!
Your head will blow off, roll around in the street outside,
where a cur will think kindly of man
serving him a pulpy Sunday steak
on an early Monday morning.