The Show

by | Oct 7, 2006 | Poetry | 0 comments

Guns roar, tracer fly’s, another British soldier dies,
Bodies heap while you’re asleep, the anguished cries of widows weep.
The crack of rounds, a soldier’s down, the howling scream of battle sounds.
As rockets stream into the air, the wounded shriek it isn’t fair!
As fathers’ sons lay down their lives, and leave behind their lonely wives,
As young men bleed into the sand, their lives cut short by strangers hand.
As dreams end suddenly in the sun, it makes you wonder what’s been won?
What’s worth the taking of a life, a father, son or someone’s wife?
What can be gained by so much pain, what reason to make horror reign?
When flags unfurl and bugles sound, why do we have to fight for ground?
Why can’t we meet as honest men, and solve our problems with a pen?
Why can’t we throw away our guns, our rockets, tanks and all our bombs?
And live in peace and without pain, never to see the tracer again,
Never to hear the sounds of war, of bullets, bombs and cannons roar.
Never to see a life cut short, never to see a battle fought.
Never to hear a widow cry, a wounded man screams to heaven, why?
Never to bury your own son, and wonder the reason his life was done.
If only this dream will come true, a better life for me and you.
Until that time I’d better go, to the recruiting office to join the show.


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