He passed boot camp, a metamorphosis of a man into a jarhead
He sauntered through dunes of golden sand, in a platoon of beige fatigues
He left prints of large boots and wind swept morals in the gold, brown sand
He returned for two weeks, never said a word, and desired to be alone
He was taunted, blacked out, left a body bruised and battered
He was arrested but the law decided to let him go, this is a common occurrence it seems
He returned to the sand again, rifle in hand and black boots strapped tight once again
He is said to have killed a bakers dozen, this from a friend who never raised his fist
He wants to put the rifle in the closet, and let the dust settle on the black boots and
He wants to be a teacher; I want him to be a teacher

i like it.

i like it too, it's pretty good..