The tanks are in the street
bloated with broken young men
hoping for an open heart
a garland of poppies
they are tired of the war
and could do with
a soft bottom to fondle
maybe drink wine
from a delicate glass
So, with the ancient hatred of
the colonised
we lob a couple more grenades
at the bastards
curse their children’s children
burn their generals alive
bury them all in a nameless pit
Pity the aggressors
forever tied to the same story
(click on an image to enlarge)