The Battlefield Crows

Battering wings of black delight
Summon up the wind and meld into the night
Eyes flash victory when battles rage
And the bodies rise up to meet the day
And every stinking sinew calls
That some man's victory 
Is another's downfall. 

Hollow men in hollow hours
With hollow chests housing
Sparse petalled sunflowers
Empty skulls with vacant eyes
And hands that hold only
Death's kiss of surprise
Lay proving that however bad
What little that is good can be lost
When The Man goes mad. 

Legions of ancestral crows
Fly in formation as shadows grow
And the earth refuses to accept its load
Of fresh corpses in copses of oak and pine groves
Instead the stinking pyres are built
From the bones of houses that hopeful hands built
And on their hungry jaws are laid
Mother's love, future fears and 
Hopeless prayers prayed
All wrapped up in human form
All gone to waste
All dead 
With not a soul left to mourn. 

Old lies, patriotic and otherwise 
Are wheeled out as rich men 
Do the sums of how much has to be lost
So that they can say they won. 
It don't matter much what any of us say
Bullets make money
Bombs make hay
Shine shines
Bucks leap
And in the market
The wild bull is slaughtered
For game
Not sacrifice or supper-meat. 

Die for your country
Die because you hate
Die because you fear
Die because the hour is getting late
Die because you have nothing else to do
Die because you are stupid. 
Die for him because he died for you. 
Die. Be dead. Go on. Rest your head
With worms and maggots in the battlefield
All you are is a decaying politicians
Yearly total sum and maximum net yield. 

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