The war was almost over.
We could almost go home.
We all just kept on shooting,
With white smoke like foam.

We could almost go home.
I could smell my mom’s sweet pie.
With white smoke like foam.
Just I hoped I didn’t die.

I could smell my mom’s sweet pie.
Baking in her oven.
Just I hoped I didn’t die.
The war was almost over.


Andrew Schreiber