I know that the truth about war

Is limbs blown off and bodies burned,

Though someone working for the law

May bang his polished desk and say

That he will leave no stone unturned,

And generals will bleat and pray

That ‘certain’ lessons must be learned.

The soldier, gasping with relief,

Will weep in buckets for his mates

And dream, discreetly, in his grief,

Of planting bulbs and drying plates.

The populace, one day each year,

Will venture out to clap and cheer

And book their turn at Heaven’s gates.