Hey Mr Politician

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.