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To you who’d read my songs of War
And only hear of blood and fame,
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)Suddenly -- door to door --
Tidings! Can we believe,
We, who were used to war?Four--eleven--seventeen--thirty-two the day before --
There's no discharge in the war!That never decked white sheets before,
Blame my dazed head, blame bloody war.I've knowed ole Flood this last five year or more;
I knoo 'im when 'is Syd went to the war.In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?The Queen they served in war,
And fire the beacons up and down
The land they perished for.Like the fighting men of yore
But we were no match for Stalin’s boys
If they’d warmed up that cold war.He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,The somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,'I sees me finish!… War? Why, this ain't war!
It's ferritin'! An' I'm the bloomin' game.
Me skin alone is worth the 'untin' forAnd new foul tricks unguessed before
Will win and justify this War.Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war,This was the first time in the war
That French and English spilled each other's gore;Namely, 'Can christians go to war,'
The very devil might abhorAnd this when peril pressed him sore,
Left aidless in the shivered front of war--Their ecstasy to God is more
Than Lucifer at Heaven’s door
Entreating pardon for his war.we fight, push & war
all seems to be a will for power & nothing more