James H. Smith


Night on a Rung Sat island we sat, water on all sides
If not for Puff, mothers’ sons would die
Out of the dark and flare lit night came Puff’s mighty roar
Headed for the battle, the ground below to score
His curving tongue of red reached out and licked the very ground
Shell casings raining down from his growling sound
A magical beast out of the night, is what Puff seemed to me
An AC-47 Gunship fire raining down, a blessed sight to see