Keith Bickerstaffe Poet Verse

And Still the Troops Are Marching

The loaf is stretched, a wretched game, 
need is the arbiter of taste 
as pride takes on another meaning, 
duty is the call that summons, 
love and hunger both the same. 

Hope directed to the cause, 
troops in uniform are marching, 
those left behind forever searching 
for reports of dead and wounded, 
bitter tears and strained applause. 

Hunger troubles starving children, 
and the hearts of those who've worried, 
servicemen and sweethearts, wives 
and mothers with good feelings buried, 
lives on hold, a crushing burden. 

Spring appears and goes unnoticed, 
the crocus unappreciated, 
flocks of starlings block the sun, 
black as the barrel of a gun, 
and still the troops are marching. 

The sea is grey with gulls and smoke, 
waves broken like the battered land, 
sounds of conflict rise unceasing, 
troops advancing and retreating, 
marching, marching, 'til the bitter end.

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