We buy Poppys these days to,

In passing, respect our lost.

The Flanders red reflecting,

The shed blood of conflict’s cost.

Does anything really change.

Carrion crows walk through wounded

To leisurely pull flesh from the dead

Wings flap and smack as they dispute

Territorial rights, as with bowed heads

Riderless horses wait to be gathered in,

Worth more than wounded lying around,

Friend and foe joined in death

On the blood stained battle ground.

Some wounded will crawl away

Maybe to be found and survive

But not many of those lying there

Will leave that field alive.

Today a battle was fought

A king’s crown won or lost

Little matter which to those 

Who paid war’s ultimate cost.

In the victors’ tents

The vanquished will arrive to treat,

Parlez to and fro

 Partaking of wine and meat,

As they scheme 

And plan ahead

Feeding, just like the carrion,

On pieces from the battle’s dead.

No Poppys in those days

No worry about the cost

Just the lives of lower orders

The major part of the lost.

Does anything really change.