Seeds of Triumph

A plastic posy struts the streets,
Saluting each stout chap it meets
With face blood-red and nose blood-black,
Exhorting all to bold attack -
And to recall, yet once again,
The greatness of our living men:
Those suited heirs to glorious dead
Who profited, and died in bed.

New heroes must be called to pop
Their cheery selves over the top:
And so the swollen head explodes
To scatter patriotic loads:
These clouds of opiated spores
Make good, clean fun of all our wars;
And suckers all who take them in
Recall who won, and think who'll win.

Victor Finestock