“We’re goin’ to war.” She smiled, as she read the evening news.
There’s no political mandate, but we know what’s best for you.
Napoleon’s bastard offspring asked for help from little Hitler.
An attack from Belgium’s ghettos, but we’re to bomb the shit out of Syria.
We’re marchin’ in, on sovereign terriTORY.
Battling the “terrifying” invisible enemy.
We’re going to war.
“We’re goin in too, chaps! We don’t want to miss the show!”
Lions led by donkeys, “… it’ll be over by Christmas you know.”
Fifty-grand per flight hour, a cool four billion per carrier.
And all the years before, not one penny off your tax-bill.
We’re marchin’ in, on sovereign territ’ry.
Fighting adjectives and acronyms.
The psychopathic puppet masters have finally lost the plot.
We’re supporting Al-Quaida against IS, ISIL Daesh or what-
ever the fuck they’re called today – those “scary, scary” crazies.
Gonna stop the terrorist threat with the lives of your babies.
Turn off the fuckin’ TV, don’t listen to their lies.
War’s a fuckin’ racket and consumes youth’s virgin lives.
When the war machine fires up, it’s gears turn and grind,
only the children of the chosen are guaranteed to stay behind.
©27.11.2015 Andrew Robert Chapman