Ugly War, Pretty Profit
The seeds of war are planted in the soil of greed.
Children of the poor are sent off to battle.
Children of the rich stow away in college.
The war machine is a stomping beast.
Teenagers coming home in body bags.
The parents suffering from chronic mind bleed...
The year prior, it was tuxedos, carnations, and dreams.
Villagers interrogated and raped.
Villages ransacked and set ablaze.
Nothing changed; the reds still reign.
The war ended only when enough profit was made.
Today, the villagers work the rice fields.
As they've done so for thousands of years.
They've no voting privilege but don't seem to care.
Despite atrocities, they seem gentle and genuinely happy.
Occasionally an ancient ordinance will go off.
Taking a limb, but they're still happy and smiling.
A one-armed cook caters to Western tourists.
Still happy, still smiling, still gentleness in the eyes.
They cast their nets into fishponds.
That were once bomb craters.
Does this count as war reparations?
Life moves along despite the specter of napalm.
Some have made skiffs from the metal skin of war.
Others have thrift shops selling war paraphernalia.
A small slice of capitalism in the middle of the jungle.
Maybe 48000 dead and half a million maimed wasn't all for naught.
Ugly death, pretty profit.
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