Your Poetry Dot Com - The A-Team Poem

Grenades and guns, they do not kill,
Of this I am so certain.
Because of such a childhood thrill
As Soldiers of an L.A. Fortune.

A testament to heroism,
Escaping from the law
To fight the fight of Jingoism
Or is that what I saw?

Past B.A.’s goldie lookin’ chain
And Murdoch’s maddened gaze
Past the Face’s charm, so vain
I think I knew their secret ways . . .

Running from the military
Running from the law
Engineers, so mercenary
I think that’s what I saw . . .

I surely heard the gunfire fly
And their GMC truck gain
Upon a flight, with B.A.’s sigh -
‘I ain’t getting’ in no plane . . .’

But surely though, he’d drink his milk,
And somehow they’d all fly,
And Face would crease his shirt of silk
Where Hannibal would wink his eye
At end of ev’ry episode
Or so it seemed to me;
He’d start to talk in secret code
With cigar smoke, so funnily . . .
Towards a waking B.A.’s scorn
Against poor Murdoch’s maddened tricks
To get him to sell gold he’s worn
To pay for all those cancer sticks . . .

I know I wanted Murdoch’s jacket
It was brown and made of leather,
I also tried to buy a packet
Of cigars so I could say;

'I love it when a plan comes together . .. '

This poem is Copyright ยฉ neptunes_first