Email Poem

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Poem

Hey, Mr. Politician, look,
Just look, what you’ve done
Stuck me back in combats 
And carrying a gun,
Bayonet, spare mag,
Primed stun grenade
Sent to sort out the mess 
You bastards have made.

I ain’t a fly boy
Whistling overhead
Not ever seeing 
Their wounded and dead, 
I’m just a foot slogger,
Feet firmly on the ground,
Seeing face to face
The chaos all around. 

Mr Politician I’d like to see
You marching by my side,
Flush you out from all
Those places that you hide,
Uttering pronouncements,
Barely pausing for breath,
As you condemn a few more
Thousands to their death.

You murder by poxy
In the name of The State:
Rather than compassion you
Preach intolerance and hate.
When will you learn
War’s not a computer game
No reset button to
Return things to the same.

Those aren’t just fake bodies
Scattered all around 
Those are the real dead
On your chosen killing ground.
And when our mission is over,
When it’s come to a conclusion.
Will me and my mates
Possibly face a prosecution.

Attiudes can change
With the passing of time
Accusations easily made
Of Historic War Crime
Hey Mr Politician,
I hope you don’t die well,
And, if such a state exists,
Spend eternity in Hell.

Although I've taken a break I've still been reading regularly and couldn't not publish this after reading  Wen Horden's fine poem about the 1914 Christmas Truce.  I performed it to mixed reactions at a Remembrance Sunday gathering.  Veterans approved, not all others did.

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