this is war

he’s not in an amusement gallery anymore
this is it lad
this is war
waved off from Southampton dock
or one of many
in the post is sure the shock
of what is about to unfold for us all
of to Afghanistan or somewhere
 so he’s told
no one really knows the exact town for sure

or what is it like to kill a man
such questions must swell
such baggage must quell any thought
of family and friend for a while
as he sits there, blanket and bunker
with thoughts
with rattle and clunker of armaments
all aboard

he knew the power of his rifle was  good
standard issue
he can take himself apart in the dark
and he often does
and he often should
in foxhole, cold the desert
got the taste for war
dug in now
a bunker man
a ration can peeler, out in the desert
a hide the fear under comrade jokes
the squealing lines of laughter like egg yolk spill out
of our insides and the squealing sounds like an abattoir
no one really wants to fight
just the few, but we will do
pouring tea by campfire stews in fear
those men are just like you, so you kill em
those men are nothing like you, so you kill them.
the lot of you
the massing squat of you
the khaki lot of you ready now
for war
battlestations go boom
and you become instilled by the death
and doom
become trapped in your minds room
the horror
never show fear for pride
before comrade on the same side
man come over here

they talk about what’s right
what’s wrong
what religion
what song we sing
but we all own the same chorus sheet
we all love and stand on 2 feet
so why does the killer instinct insist on screwing us all?
we should all go and play football
in the middle of the desert, every day of the week
weak

this is not the seaside arcade
these are not the air pistols
on which boyish fantasies were made
theres no ginger beer or lemonade
round here
this is not a popping soda can grenade

this is real
this is war
that is a door man hopes to close one day.