War
Fear not to tread on broken ground where others fear to pass,
Fear not the sound of Eagles cry or broken shattered glass,
Fear not the sight of death for War will always come,
Fear not the Bugler’s call nor the beating of the drum,
Fear he who fast approaches in his three-piece Suit and tie,
As he whispers you sweet nothings and he sends you off to die,
Fear the Gods that he abuses as he’s rousing you to War,
As he twists and warps your mind so you forget to ask “what for?”,
Fear his Prophets and his Priests in their frocks with just one task,
Sent to poison all your Wells so that you forget to ask,
Fear as they “Blood” you into violence till the killing hurts no more,
Fear your memory as you forget – “what am I doing here upon this strangers Shore?”,
Fear your Kindness as it’s crushed like the little children’s Skulls,
Fear your Mercy as it flees as you carry out their culls,
Fear the Boy that you will lose that you will never meet again,
Fear the Sword that you picked up as you brushed aside your pen,
Fear that when it’s done and you come home with nothing felt inside,
Jusk ask;
How many Priests and Prophets and men in Suits have died?
Laois Cyclist.