Of Desert Wars
He wasn't what you'd call a desert flower,
by Herbert Nehrlich
more of a cactus with a hundredthousand pricks.
While walking by I dropped an insult by his shadow
and watched the fireworks blow into endless skies.
We hit it off, needless to say, like toad and beetle,
the question, one of sheer identity,
it was a scorcher of a day on parched terrain
huge balls of spinifex and animosity.
But look today, my friends, have we turned into mellow
and rather feeble aging poets with no brawn?
Or could it be that he's a rather friendly fellow
and that the days of nasty skirmishes are gone?
Note: I needed to show that I can still rhyme, hence the last 4 lines.