My grandpa worked on nukes,
long enough to puke.
All the waste burning,
this work one can’t rebuke
with hot gear.

In world war II, he was
sent to fight the Nazis,
when his plane went down.
One doctor gave him lots
of hot soup.

There was no more warden,
in that prison garden.
Only the prison dirt.

After he worked on benches,
requesting wenches
in his basement dwell.
After he worked on benches,
went stair crazy.

With all the nukes he worked
at the facility,
his anxieties
were growing all the Brussels
one could eat.