LOSS LEADER

 

See the barrels all aslope,

catch the bayonet gleam;

parade that advertising ploy,

snare the young man's dream.

 

Gun and knife - testosterone;

let death come slow or fast;

on our streets anathema,

over there - a blast.

 

And when the blast kills heroes,

we bring them back, adrape.

Home-grown they are just zeroes,

Asboes with collared nape.

 

One grave shall hear the bugle call,

the other naught of note;

one killer honoured, standing tall,

the other a supine scroat.

 

Her Majesty inspects the troops,

CCTV the dross.

This Gordian Knot of tangled loops

leads ever back to loss.