An "oot" Poem Mostly About War

I’ve studied the cause of wars from ‘Nam to Beirut.
Diplomats with grandiose verbiage and fancy suit
frequently negotiate and prevent wars at their root,
but sometimes about peace they just don’t give a hoot.
This particular skirmish started because of one old coot.
Neither his militia nor the peacekeepers intended to shoot,
but, once the shooting started, that was rendered moot.
The militia had dined on dilute stew of newt and fruit.
The soldiers lunched on spicy chili, with beans to boot.
Militia and troopers face to face, the officer went to salute,
but, because of his nervous stomach, out came a little toot,
causing his soldiers to laugh, eliciting poot after loud poot.
The old coot, mishearing, fired, and his militia followed suit.
The peacekeepers retreated, with the militia in hot pursuit.
After much fighting, they were able to find an escape route.
The militia won the town, which they proceeded to loot.
The historical significance of this battle was only minute.
Now that I have explained it to you, I think I should scoot.
I am becoming an astute player of both the lute and the flute.
I have to practice, except my neighbor, whose hearing is acute,
keeps banging on my wall and hollering for me to go mute.


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