Hammers of hate beat the steel
Into a helmet and blade.
Blacksmiths and armorers feel
Proud of the death-bound brigade.
Marching past crowds on the curb,
Clattering heels on the stones.
Later, the crows will disturb
Flesh as it ripens on bones.
Preachers and Popes prate of peace,
Powerless to change history:
Powder, and guns wrapped in grease
Auger what always will be.
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