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The Terror Of War

Volume 1

The Young And The Brave

The Young And The Brave

They march like sacrificial lambs,
Towards their slaughter field,
With heavy weapons in their hands,
That they will ne'er yield.
The boyish blush has paled and froze,
The eyes that danced now die,
The smell of death creeps up their nose,
Where once was smell of pie.

Their ragged boots, ill kept and torn,
Now barely cover feet,
Their gaunt expressions, lost, folorn,
With death they each must meet,
With silent prayers they shed a tear,
And arm themselves for combat,
And brace themselves for pain and fear,
As they fight against the wombats.

The wombats come! They come!
Oh Lord! Our men cannot withstand,
The evil in the wombats' hearts,
Our men fall where they stand,
No weapon does the wombat need,
No guns or tanks, alas,
Just a burrow, nice and deep,
And perhaps some nice fresh grass.

Our men all fall, doomed youth, they fall!
Upon the fields of blood,
No mother here to heed their call,
At home their tears will flood.
A waste of life, these thankless wars,
The young and brave fall quick,
While wombats breed like rampant whores,
It really makes me sick.

Never Mind The Shrapnel

Never Mind The Shrapnel

I used to have two arms, two legs
I had amazing tits
I also had a lovely ass
and lots of other bits

I used to have a lot of friends,
and family, nephews and nieces
but now the war has come amd gone
we're all in little pieces

War Poetry HomeWar Poetry  
October 2001

The Terror Of War
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