When men of fame do meet discord,
They find a way to prove their point.
Then it is, they think of the art,
And call to play artists of doom.
The artists too, who know their art,
Would play the strings from their guitars,
Releasing pleasant sounds of doom
That leave men gasping for breaths of air.
Babies wail, toddlers weep;
Their mothers too have felt the sounds
Taking rise from the guitars of war,
And lay by them with gaping eyes.
Young boys leave, all on their heels,
And flee without their closest ones,
Fear oozing out of every pore
That yet has not been blocked by blood.
Sounds of horror fill the misty air:
Bombshells cracking open, ‘leasing doom,
Creaking sounds from shattered houses
Under attack by massive arson,
Rhythmic thuds of bodies to the ground
From mortal tones that vade the air,
The agonised screams of innocence,
Dwarfed only by the dreadful cannonade.
Screams of little girls, barely grown,
Receiving men they’ve never known,
Left alone in shattered raiment
To brood and lick their bleeding wounds.
Tender ones, better off dead,
Trudge along, barely standing,
With sunken cheeks and pointed ribs
Peeping from transparent chests.
They’d give their leaf-thick fleshy parts
Just to lay their hands on flour,
Before the next artistic blast takes them unawares.
What a sharp contrast they are
To all their mates that live with fame.
The day is dead, the show is off,
The artists then return to base
To meet females with smiling kids
That know not what their fathers do.
All is well, their lives are good,
As pay bags do weigh higher.
Victory is here, but for whom?
The hundreds that hushed the thousand?
Fellow men, what have you done?
Composed your master piece i guess!