Poetry 3

 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