You've tidied up the wounds, cut down the pain
To prove we dug not, nor were mown, in vain.
A century's a handy clot of years
For soil and saccharine to soak up tears:
A decent shroud for grief, to bury it
In settled sediment of native grit.
Long thrilled and spilled, our opiated blood
Blooms black-red glory now our brains are mud:
Two hundred minutes, generously lent
To sell our ghosts, that more flesh may be spent.
You grateful nations, noble monarchs, gods
Who made of us such useful, silly sods;
Our patriotic, hero-moulding bosses:
We thank you for the clean and pretty crosses.
Clay Marter
As ever, sir, bravo!
ReplyDeleteAs ever, sir, my thanks.
ReplyDeleteI note you posted it at 11.00 Philip; such precise timing methinks.
ReplyDeleteI played The Beatles 'Revolution 1' at 11.00, to both hope for a better world and drown out the sound of blubbing Crocodylinae.
I do the precision timing thing every year, with a little help from Blogger. I am almost as sensitive to getting up before noon as the Trumpster's head-tribble is to the horrors of our planet's precipitation.
ReplyDelete