by | Apr 1, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

The powder hissed, the stench of cordite,
The steel projectile hurled at Man and Rider.
One of the ‘Brave Six Hundred’ fell.
Guns fell silent.
Melted down, formed into crosses
That Heroes wear on their chests.

Bronze cannons are rare today.
Not much left now, Heroes or Bronze
The price of precious metals grows
Yet we do not act to prevent the making of more crosses

The System’s response;

“The saving grace is,

The majority wont be asking for
Mess Dress Miniatures”.

For the Heroes of ‘Great’ Britain.


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