War is a game for old sour men
Who can't help to boast, brag and lie,
Who send abroad mere boys who then
Are mowed down, crawl away and die.
War is a game for men in gray
Who gain a pound on rotting flesh
That failed to dodge the bullet's way
Through plates of steel, fine kevlar mesh.
War, that game for men drawing lines
On maps, for grunts to reach and hold,
Unless they find the patch of mines
About which they should have been told.
No real game for a young, lost life
Whose blood for unjust cause was spilled,
Nor for the frail, unknowing wife
Whose young husband has just been killed.
© Copyright 2016 Bert Broomberg. All rights reserved.
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