No bread to eat,
empty the store.
But guns still speak,
and sometimes roar.
Bread comes slow,
stuck at the line.
Bullets just go,
every single time.
Food needs papers,
and a big long check.
Bullets find ways,
round every wreck.
Farmer keeps waiting,
hands full of dirt.
Shells roll in fast,
but bread comes hurt.
Not same roads,
not same kind.
One gets stopped,
the other’s blind.
If bread sold like war,
we’d all be fed.
If war sold like bread,
maybe peace instead.
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