(This poem was born of a Newsnight blogger's comment in 2008. Serendipity in 'spades'.)

The arms of the world reach up in despair

A desperate child, with no mother there;

As the armaments industry fashions war-ware

There is not much call for ploughshares.

The artisan’s hand cupped Britain’s prowess

When the smith made and mended the tools of success;

His arms now hav...

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