By Parson Thru
His blood spattered across his mates?
About staring where his legs used to be?
Watching the heat of his life enriching the mud?
What’s glorious about trying to stuff his intestine
back through the gash from whence it spilled?
At the end, as he cries for his mother,
where is the glory?
Who flatters this crime?
Crops in the field
Her house burned-down
Husband abducted or dead
Refugees in a foreign land
Crammed amongst filth and disease
Who owns these wars?