Innocence, the light of a child,
Is mangled and hurled away
With the heart to make a machine.
Andre, the small village boy,
Is now a big little man holding a spitting metal.
Spotting a mismatched uniform
Beware: he has a sniper’s vision
Unhomely, for want of civilities,
He is a hot iron without a thermostat
Father and mother sent permanently away
By his captors, he hauls hurtful memories
Later made to endear the cold barrel
Only he is made to perforate an ailing friend
A lone wolf with a marshal stick to lean on
Liquor and violence define his new self
It’s a life of blasts: attacking, retreating, and endless veering
Dead or alive one cannot be forgiven by General over a tear
For it is the secret code to unlocking the being Andre is.