“Ahhhhhhh!” wails the charge.
Ten soldiers acquire their ammunition.
A catapulted meatball pelts the wall.
“Long live the clean!” I shout
retaliating with a quick sweep of the area.
Peas are spat in rapid succession
at once neutral parties,
“This means war!” the sister lands claim.
A cease fire is ordered.
A rogue horde of fingers smear my cheek.
A toast to truces?
Nay, for the milk is spilt hastily.
Tomato sauce everywhere
my tears stream from the bloody mess,
And yet,
How happily you sit upon your throne.
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The High Chair Rebellion
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