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The crashing pain,
The brief inescapable complex which affects us all,
The world is a place to buy and to keep forever,
He who has the most in the end wins,
The worry thought of death!

Oh! The worrying thought of death,
How it affects us all?
Cringing always hidden like young men beneath the loll,
So quickly do the rich arm us for peace,
So swoon do they over the guns,
When they own the factories,
The nuns plead for us.

We have warmed up the militia,
Shipped they young men of ours overseas.
Bought up our stocks in tanks,
We’ve done with their women what we please,
The romantics are dead,
Oh! So worrying the thought of death?
For the young ‘tis it? Certainly.
Does war benefit them? Only the trenches.
Oh! The worrying thought of war,
Dearest friend of the bullet-maker,
Why do you treat us so?

So many times you leave us behind,
Our dead men in foreign nations,
You leave so many forgotten
The sight of hats can make us tremble,
The General so unkind,
Oh! The trembling briefly dead,
The bodies gently rising,
With a sweep of your hand and a tip of your saber you send us back out into the storm,
So long ago you promised an end.
The widows are gently crying.

Oh? So terrible you must think you have it,
In your mansions and your homes,
But none of you can truly cry until you have lived under the woe
The bomb,
Despair, the Undertaken,
The man in war who is never short,
Death he is slowly making.

The factories on the farthest shore crank out their
machines of hostilities,
and the people on main street in their little cottage
never meet it at the door.
Oh. The silent struggle,
The closed eyes can never see,
Like one's blinding flash of a
grenade bombast,
Without your foremost knowledge or care
like crinkled red leaves we drift away.

Oh...the crushing pain,
the foremost feel of harsh.
The death of men far greater than us who toil each night for no purpose,
We survive through our suffering,
Till we outlive the strong,
And the cowardly are all that remain,
So great the CEO is,
Far higher than the climb,
Of the stock in rifles,
They bayonet dollar bills,
His jokes tear us to rags for his own individual play,
So we'll live only to die for his riches,
Of us you shall all never speak,

Oh! Our deaths, the silent thought.
They voted us away,
They bear us into the graveyards,
They sing us of themselves,
Give us all their charity,
but close their hearts to us upon the weekends.

What have we done for this?
To die upon no hallowed ground,
We, the unknown soldier.
The Youngman away from his life and
home.
The father of our daughters.
Please, turn not your eyes away,
Do not judge us by what we have done, forced to do,
We gave our lives for you,
Please dear sir,
Open your chamber doors,
Relinquish your unfettered distrust,
Bring us back home to sleep with our families,
Share with us your mead,
We signed up for your war, months at the most,
We were promised return by Christmas.



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Elizabeth-of-rohan This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Dec. 9, 2012 at 2:49 am
De brevitate vitae.
 
Lovestonedloser said...
Feb. 3, 2010 at 2:26 pm
This is simply amazing...i really really liked this? Return the love to some of my work if you don't mind please?
 
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