The generals fry in their fat,

The spokesman spouts his usual junk;

The sergeant’s barking will fall flat,

The new recruit has trashed his bunk.

 

The rumpus at the front is still;

Noise of mortal combat ceases.

Exhausted soldiers, trained to kill,

Break their weapons into pieces.

 

They hug their foes and swap their hopes

Of lives soon filled with joy and art;

A lonely red-faced major gropes,

In vain, for reasons to change heart.

 

Meanwhile, back home, their leaders sulk,

And outraged fops demand their heads,

But they, united in their bulk,

Sweep past and hurry to their beds.