Dear Friends,
The aristocracy have always hated the brits,
Oppressing and trodding on their dainty bits,
He said in a voice large,
Another bayonet charge,
And we can sell the fallen bodies for profits.
Some people just don’t like peace,
They don’t like it even the least,
They prefer war,
Exciting and more,
And in suffering they’ll have a feast.
Am I supposed to be happy some kids just died,
In pain horror and dread with no place to hide,
Seems demonic to me,
To relish such suffering,
I’m sorry but in this I will not abide.
The irony is astonishingly thick,
Tar like in January it’s not quick,
Until all danger is swept away,
And the nation is made ever more sick.
Just as moths are drawn to the light,
Executives constantly live in a fright,
What will they say,
So charge in without care and regret in hindsight.
There’s a reason they don’t want you remembering when,
They ordered bayonet charges on machine guns and then,
Told you don’t wear poppies,
You cant even drive jalopies,
It’s all because they want to do it again.
Sincerely,
John Pepin
