War (a poem)

A great thing called warreally!

The bullets they fly by your head,as you try to duck for your life. Trenches the fill with blood, it's like a flood of murderous lies.

The stench of death fills the air. No time for crying, as the dead and dying-pile up, this terrible war. No text book can prepare you for the horrors of war.

Well, it's certainly not a bore this war.

It's a home truth for the matter. The bombs they make such a clatter.

Guns turned on fellow human beings, they don't see who they are killing! So, this is war to the glorious dead, quite honestly I would rather stay in bed, dream of a better past time. Than fight in this war!

Steven Kingett Southsea