Ugh, so lame, but another TBT poem from my youth…

I love my rifle.
Its’ long thick barrel,
It could catch a can,
In my nimble hand.
I clean my Rifle often.

When the cries of battle sound,
My rifle will be ready to pound,
And fire when the heat is in my sight,
Superbly will my Rifle help me fight,
Because I clean it every night.

After the passion of battle,
My heart rate and breath level.
I will smile with pleasure,
For my drastic measures,
Now I will continue to clean, my Rifle.

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