WAR WASTE
Marching, marching, marching along a dusty road,
Backs break carrying such a heavy deadly load,
Then resting in dirty trenches, a rat their bed mate,
Every nerve on edge because of war and all it’s hate.
A friend drops dead beside you, a bullet in the head,
In numbness, you wish that it was you instead,
Hungry, filthy dirty, with others blood on your hands,
What a pitiful waste of life, time and this good land.
Lying there knowing you are expected to kill and maim,
Watching you and others in sorrow and pointless pain.
The captain drops in our trench with a letter for Bill
Dead!! He cries, of unseeing open eyes he’s had his fill.
I feel weak, my eyes grow weary and dim, no more pain,
Oh look, there is dear old Bill all alive and well again,
I am clean and dry only tears of joy in my young eyes,
Nineteen, yes I am dead too, another great war prize.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson December 6, 2002