every hot lead bullet that is let fly
is the hope of a weak man far away
that, in its tearing, a mother might cry
and so in a country’s lifted winded wail
the weak men of the opposite far away
might finally pack it in and turn tail;
and so it goes with every waste of war,
sons and daughters rend and are rent
that some glory is found on some false shore
that it might be poured like blood soaked sand
into a nation’s pretty, empty glass jar –
a display of how death is at our command
while we, as we unman, are unmanned