Our Headmaster, carried away with the hour,
Somebody's finest hour, whose I've yet to know.
Asking if we would go to fight,
A dozen pudgy hands shot skywards
While shooting a dozen enemies in our mind's eye.
Brainwashed by the fickle euphoria of war.
The hundreth generation who said
It could not happen again,
That we would not go again,
Now ready to lie about our ages.
It was over in months.
More than a hundred,
Less than a thousand
Lay forever on that cold isle.
Eyes seeing nothing,
Minds hearing only the howling south Atlantic gales
Whipping their monuments with unforgiving rain.
Cabinet sat smugly in self congratulation,
People got back on the treadmill of life,
Clumsily revolving the world.
Remembering if they cared to with a poppy for a day
Those Dads
Who would never hear their children laugh.
Those Sons
Who would never kiss their latest flames
Or hear their Mothers weep.
It's time it shouldn't happen
But it still does.
So if God has been watching
I don't fancy our chances.
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