“All a poet can do today is warn” (Wilfred Owen)
A shame we never listened to that poet
who drank the poisoned well of human feeling;
who fell into the field of wounds and bled.
The soldier: now, the victim, not the hero;
who's led to die in men-filled abattoirs
the size of towns; worth less than condemned meat.
Sing out! Sing out! Sing out! You Hymns of Hate!
You half-rhymed words of warning! Tell the men
who fight: you are the enemy you kill.
The final insult to The Dead. We fight;
we maim; we kill: as if you never died.
As young men’s years are all undone. Again.