Guns Give Applause (Original Poetry)

Guns Give Applause

Smoothbore ashen clouds
Upon a field of deathly passion.
Men wearing funeral shrouds
While burned men lick field rations.
This spectre of war,
Never suffers from languor.

. . .

One, two, three, four,
One, two, three, four,
What is our cause?
Guns give applause,
Bullets, hail and death.
One, two, three, four
One, two, three, four
Give ‘em gore, give em’ fire
Build their funeral pyre.

. . .

A wrecked home and a child unborn,
Viscera clinging to a mother’s leg.
“There will be time to mourn”
She attempts to desperately beg,
But the spectre of war does not care,
As he looks with a dreadful glare.

. . .

Five, six, seven eight,
Five, six, seven, eight,
Keep the marching gait,
This is no debate.
Five, six, seven, eight,
Five, six, seven eight,
Lost your foot? Me too.
Time to push on through.

. . .