Where have all the bullets gone?
They’re missing from the shed
Did Daddy shoot a bunch of ducks?
(The ducks, it looks, are dead.)
Or Daddy could have picked them up
And hollered: War is hell!
And with a tear of hope for peace
He tossed them down the well.
But then again, the shots could be
In Mommy’s gingerbreads
(You know how she can get
When she forgets to take her meds)
Or possibly the postman
Took away the bullet bag
To nipple-target plump brunettes
On stolen nudie mags
If not the postman, then the priest
He’d melt them down for bronze
To fashion small metallic Christs
To put on people’s lawns
Or Baby could have found them
(He thinks metal things are snacks)
Or perhaps the Bullet IRS
Collected them as tax
Or perhaps my granny used them
For a necklace, like they’re beads
Or squirrels could’ve stole them
Thinking maybe they were seeds
Or maybe Slow Brained Lily
Tried to fish with them as bait
Or my teacher could’ve bagged them up
To be a paperweight
Or perhaps they all were swept away
By strong magnetic trucks
But then again, the ducks are dead…
They’re probly in the ducks.
