This is the second page of my poems.  
Please note this material is copywrited.  
To use it elsewhere you must at least be 
honest and mention that it is mine.
Do not change the content.
Some material is graphic in content and
not suitable for everyone, where possible
they have been edited.
  Thank you.
  Harry H. Smith

Bubba was sitting, staring
	At his glass of beer,
In the corner of his eye
	There welled a little tear.

I could tell from the look
	On his cold and empty face,
He had slipped away again
	To a distant time and place.

I knew the question coming,
	The  feeling was all too keen;
Memories started flooding in,
	Of things I'd done and seen.

He looked up at me and asked,
	"Were they lucky or were we?
Just how fucking bad 
	Can one lifetime be?"

"They were the lucky ones."
	What else could I say?
Then took a drink to brace myself,
	For another miserable day.

Bubba went back to staring
	At his glass of beer,
In the corner of his other eye
	There rose another tear.

And I went back to thinking
	Of how it came to be,
This way of life we live
	The Bubba's and the me's.

You ask me how I feel,
	You want me to explain.
But you've never been there,
	You've never shared the pain.

Your mind can not imagine,
	What my eyes have seen.
Until you've lived with death,
	You don't know what fear means.

Until you've lived my life,
	Until you've dreamed my dreams,
Until you've witnessed gore,
	Until you've heard the screams.

Don't criticize me,
	Don't call me names,
Don't toy with my mind,
	Don't try to play my game.

You've lived in a world
	of morality and right.
You've never had to view it
	With insanitys' insight.

It was years ago;
When young men tried,
Young men died,
But no one cried,
And the reaper walked
on high.

Day as night,
Night as day,
Up was down,
Down was up;
Gore floweth over the
cup.

Life by life,
Death by death;
It was today,
It was yesterday;
And it was years ago.