THE BARRELS
when will embittered men no more
spray ruin from a steel bore?
When the bodies of the poor,
for riches gain do paint the floor,
it's war, war, war!
Run, run,
here come the mortars and the bombs,
the tanks, the cannons, rolling on,
for someone else's foreign Don,
who cannot even speak your tongue,
so run, run, run.
Flee, flee,
the canisters are flung your way,
the wings of wind will bring today,
death on clouds, the gas will spray,
as marching bands do drum and play,
so flee, flee, flee away!
Peace, peace,
the barrels cease,
when the anger's all released,
when the guilt is all appeased,
when the guns by blood are greased,
the dead can have their peace!
Sleep, sleep,
when the blame has all been freed,
in mercies name, for gloried greed,
for foreign gain, our hands shall bleed,
and enter in that death down deep,
to sleep, sleep, sleep!
Rest, rest,
let God avenge your hero's death,
and place a medal on your chest,
for bravery, for valours quest,
to keep you in your dying breath,
in rest, rest, rest!
.
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For my Great Great Grandad, Private 12218, Arthur Mead, 11th Battalion, Essex Regiment.
Who died of wounds, 11th October, 1917, in France and Flanders. Aged 42. R.I.P.
© 2024 Shoestring Shane
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