Monday, April 10, 2006

Poem: Changes Seven/The Army

War develops
Like a toothache,

The caries slowly and inexorably
Gaining ground,

Until the cavity
Dominates the tooth,

Until war itself
Becomes more important

Than the reasons
For which the war is fought.

The power of the people
Is hidden in the masses

Until every poor boy
Becomes a warrior

Under an iron man
With iron fists at the top.

When the war ends
There is no victory.

The win goes to those
Who lost least

And every shucked poor boy
Goes home to his plow or factory.

The king bestows medals and ribbons
On the officers

And divides the swag
Among those who need it the least,

Want it the most,
And stop at nothing

To replenish the coffers
With the spoils of victory.

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