I say this to poppy-wearers; which is it?

The papery one that sprang from Flanders mud,

To jog the memory of long rotten dead?

Or the one from Afghan fields,

The flower of   pipe-line power,

That feeds the morphine dream,

Lets you forget when you fill

Your tank with Arab blood

And surf along on its energy sud?

In flabby rhetoric you say

“It’s war ,I don’t like it”

But your car,

Admit it,

You love it!

 

So flag-drape the invisible coffins

Of blown-to-peace babies,

Gather up the home-come amputees,

The broken lads so well-dressed,

In the town of wooden waistcoats,

Place the lily-wreathes that don’t out -stink

The trail of motor car faeces.

In mucous rhetoric you may say:

“It’s war ,I don’t like this!”

But for your car,

Admit it,

You love it!

 

For you choose to lose

Your memory in a rush-hour swoon,

To wrap up in that cherished metal cocoon,

With bottled-up tears  sprinkle  the carpet,

Of your four-wheel last -chance saloon.

In saccharine rhetoric, grieving you say,

“It’s war, I don’t like it.!”

It’s war for your car,

Admit it,

You love it!