Here's a salute to the hearts heavy with the blood spilled,

Know you've served your country well with the thousands you have killed,

But know as your tongues taste the acrid dust in the air,

For the taste of victory is that of the blood and oil,

And of arms bore; branded in the depths of their users' despair

 

The profits made through the fight may help in the next few years,

But after that our allies will be few when this fruitless crown drops below our ears,

Watching the scar in the land that will never fully heal,

Full of travesties that would make the heart of evil blush,

A sick and sorry fantasy dragged into the realm of the real

 

Racked with pain and writhing with grimacing guilt,

Waiting to see, on what sin, their reputes are sorrily built,

For war's wrath and lust are cradled in the shadow of the fray,

As the saints of slaughter revel in the gore,

Drenched in desire for money bore of mutilations carried through the day

 

It has been claimed before that the war is about peace,

As such, it seems as though this cavalcade of contradictions will never cease,

When we'll see what's come around, the more strongly in the timely flood,

Of bullets, barbs and bombs repeating once again,

Peace will only be known to those half buried in the mud.