My Cardboard Balcony

Hitched Abridging by Belinda Roddie hitched abridging misfits sitting at a turntable drinking coffee from a funnel tumbling through wordplay a tinkerbelle-like mannequin is playing with a toy ball that bounces on the finish line of g.i. joe toys' marathon disenchanted souvenirs of old forgotten juveneers (a cross of buccaneers and juveniles, if you don't get it) but the pictures in their heads are much more vivid when they talk about them not when they pick up a paintbrush 'cause the apricot tones are too dull

We capture small children every day. Some are black and some are white. Some are skinny and some are fat. The fat ones are good for cannon fodder. We put them in the tanks and wheel them onto the field. People say we're sick, but we know there's a war to be won. The adults won't fight. We need the children. They have the passion in their hearts. But then someone calls me devil and I don't understand why. Am I devil? Or am I messiah for making these kids fight for the cause?