Playing War

In a field stained with red A soldier boy lies dead No mothers breast To rest his head A colonial points upon the map And orders his battalions out While the Politian who sent them there Sits all comfy in his leather arm chair The guns they rattle out death As the soldiers fall like withered leaves there’s always a cold wind blowing across the battlefield when the grim reaper calls to collect them that fell The Politian speaks of a noble cause and fighting a just war and pays due homage to the soldiers bravery and visits the cenotaph on remembrance day But a dead soldier as no vote and so can easily be forgot another war will come along and more soldiers will fall on the field of war Because Our Politian’s like playing war.