War Child Reflexive Bloatation

If we all could breathe where the children grieve,
In the orphaned walks of roast.
Where the stifling breeze in the plagrant trees
Bring nether more to toast.
And the wimprose snores doth mend its pores,
'til the timers binge the coral.
Yes, then we'd purse the benevolent curse,
Our blinders all but shoralled.
But still breaks truth too fastly seeded.
Lest the dovers frightly needed.