The Foxhole

When I was a kid we lived in town
Right next to an empty lot
That became a battlefield
Which imagination sought

With vigorous quest for glory
To be just like John Wayne
Defeating the evil forces
That charged across the plain.

With shovel and spoon we dug a pit
That became our hiding place;
A foxhole in the heat of war
Or just a private space

To get away from parents
Who seemed always watching out
To keep us out of trouble
At which they would shout

"I see you!" And we
Would duck back in our hole
And plot some new mischief
That we felt was our role

As spies against the neighbor kid
That we didn't understand
Who was sometimes on receiving end
Of dirt clods from our hand.

We weren't trying to hurt him
But it was World War II
And he was just a Nazi
Who didn't have a clue

That we were laid in ambush
Against the evil foe
Who were trying to kill our brothers
And we knew they had to go

So we hurled the clods
Across the street
Which sometimes struck their house
And then we ran on wing-ed feet

Lest they should figure out
Who fired the shot.
But without fail it seems
We always did get caught.

Why couldn't our parents understand
That it was truly war
And we were just defending them
Against the tyranny at their door?