My Final Word On War

The fingers of the upper hand that never clutched a mound of sand that sign a suicide command with lethal scribbling tool would better serve us as a whole to grip a jagged lump of coal and shove into a tiny hole to squeeze into a jewel And if you doubt this would succeed not any more than wars of greed then you are very wise indeed well…either wise or poor and though I’m not a pacifist on this one thing I must insist a man must only use his fist for good worth fighting for But seldom does war fit the case of justice or almighty grace to save a people or a place of this you can be sure Peculiar to the human breed I mentioned once the sin of greed which turns a want into a need too potent to ignore And so we poets wail of war (when not of lovers named Lenore) with words like “roar” and “gore” and “whore” so dull and overused they only bore and cause to snore the ones who would commit a war who gather up the fighting corps with flag and cross abused Who steer the murder ships to shore who shatter buildings floor by floor who summon hell from metal ore who arm death squads in Salvador who kill the children of Dafur and other crimes I can’t endure who poke at wounds to keep them sore whose fingers twitch forevermore until they count the final score I see you’re not amused But that’s my final word on war so I will spare you Senator from more of this insipid lore I don’t know what I blather for for I am but an amateur now kindly show me to the door and through this bloody corridor and let me be excused