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