What
pretty lines the generals draw
Crouched
in tents at 4 AM
Grey
lines, blue lines, sinews twist
Upon
Marsailles and back again
Waterloo,
Manassas they
Roll
off the tongue so easily
Men
in red and men in black
Force
yellow columns to the sea
Bullets
bayonets and sabers
killed
young soldiers by the score
But
others died at home in bed
Theyr'e
just as dead (and maybe more)
On
holidays no songs are sung
For
those who died of Syphillis
And
any pain the bullet caused
Was
healed by loamy earth's sweet kiss
And
now as my eyes sweep the hills
There
are no cannons to be seen
No
happy crouching bearded men
To
weave an orange thread through a green
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