Pretty Poems

Strange are those who fain would write
Some pretty poem that tells of fight
And blood that’s spilled in alien field
When they have felt no bursting steal.

Strange it is the steady hands
That write so well in peaceful lands
Have never trembled to sanguine scene
Or been mangled by some shell’s careen

Stranger still are those who try
To tell how sweet it is to die
In some far away embattled town
When they have heard no battle sound.

How sweet if all these dead could write
And return with poems of it’s delight.



Club Battlefield

The banquet is over at the club battlefield
And the guests are all tired after gorging a meal
Of the rarest of meats and the bloodiest of wine
And some of the stagger and then they recline

All is now quiet and the revelers have dined
And some will go home to vomit their wine
But the moon still hangs like an old worn shield
To await her guests at the club battlefield