Uncivil War By Lee Cassanell

The rumble of battle rolls over the cattle who've come to be slaughtered today. With Pitch forks and Slings they march over the hill to the field of the beast and the brave. They have nothing to show for a life full of toil so they fight and they fuck and they booze. And they'd give their last breath for an honourable death and the dream they've got something to lose. The slings became swords still we fought for our lords so they'd not raise the rent on our farms. For a handful of grain we drew blood in the name of a Pope and a royal coat of arms. This isn't war it's a cull of poor and I know but I still have to murder. Fill the coffers of kings who buy princesses rings with the gold of defeat and disorder

Our swords buried sons but the way of the gun buried more than I ever could fathom. We marched in a row through the mud and the snow as the cannon balls ripped through our wagons. A cavalry charge beautified by the bards was a horror of hoofs and confusion. But they glorify so we'd don't have to die with the thought that we bought their illusions. In trenches of bones we wrote long letters home as the tanks roared away in the distance. With our rifles in hand we crawled over the top to be shot at the Generals insistence. Whilst they dined on quail by the banks of the Seine we lost men who were barely eighteen. They treat us like pawns on a tyrants chess board sacrificed for the wealth of their Queen

Now lost in the desert we kill in the present and burn all the books of the past. The bombs fall from planes and machine gunners strafe those who run to escape from the blast. Though the hands of time fly we still butcher and die for the Lords and the Gods and the Pastors. Ignorant to the core like the cattle we are fighting uncivil wars for our masters.

Copyright ©2007  Lee Cassanell

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