The Golden Crusade

Whence the first rays of sunlight fall, And nary a bird awake, The purple shades of sky, Signal for the war-drums to be played. Sleep blown away, The gruelling struggle stirs, And the blueing sky calls, For the armies to lay waste. A thousand graves are dug, Lifted aside are fallen men, Letters put into being, To be perused by brood and and bruv. War stems from hope and anger, In an inebriated state of righteousness, Unfounded assumptions seeded by desire, To be brought to rest in a book or melancholy tune of lyre. So beware, raconteur, the golden crusade, a facade of wreath of laurel, For triumph is founded on the back of coercion. Alas, nations will fight with power, But men will be flayed away, Not unlike the fabled golden crusade.