Hand Grenade.

I'm where war flowers bloom.

There are weaving eccentrics in the air,

vents of hated smoke,

persimmons hard,

rolling down the empty corridors of hours.

You bareknuckle son-of-a-bitch,

you've won my heart.

Remittance.

Passenger Mockingbird,

A suitcase and good posture will save you, friend. Sweet peace, to go where the rails end.

Regards,

Sycamore