You sit on the green seats,
Firing at each other with words,
The whistles of accusations fly over your heads,
Like supersonic birds.

Some ricochet off your armour,
But few pierce your skin,
And the wounds are felt in your pockets,
And all you do is grin.

The air is filled with rumour,
As you fight for your reputation,
But this is not the real war,
Where is your repatriation?

Yours is a civil war,
On opposite sides of the room,
Your war of pen and stripe suits,
In the end will be your doom.

What of the families,
Those have lost daughters’ and sons,
Who fight for freedom at your command,
The ones that really hold the guns,

So swap your words,
With actions we can believe,
Not this war of words with no support,
Especially for those that grieve.