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Army of Rag Trumpets
The children shout, the trumpets blare,
The army marches stiffly by.
Each man proud of the badge he wears,
Each man conscious of women's stares
As they march to the sound of the drum.
These men, as heroes never meant,
Each one different from his mate.
Men with women, men with wives,
Some with children, some alone,
All the same in this one man army.
Proudly they march to the distant blue,
Where blood makes mud of good earth,
And no crops grow.
Where men fall
Like windblown apples
To fight no more.
Softly, softly, the men creep back.
Ragbound sore feet make no noise
On crumbled ruins and broken bones.
Weeping deep tears as they
Quietly bury a daughter, son or wife.
They'll cheer no more to the sound of the trumpet
As the army creeps leaden pained by.
|If policiticans and armaments manufacturers are so keen on war we should
build them arenas where they can indulge their love - at first hand - and
not involve anyone else.
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