Iron Machine

The virgin earth has been tainted crimson
By sacrifice. Alas a thousand tears
Will not sway fate’s judgement. Win some, lose some
As my father would say, who drank his beer
Recollecting the bravery and ambition
And romance and honour of his own wars.
Father, the dark nature of attrition
Is desperate waste, a war without cause.

The iron machine has defiled the land.
Say a prayer for the poor man, left writhing
In his own trench, cursing all he once loved.
Bullet in shoulder, iron shard in hand
He weeps at his own solitude, crying
‘I should have stayed home, oh lord, I should have’