Beating Ploughshares into swords,

The drummer boy,

Drumming up business maybe,

Or just a tin soldier with a toy,

Now the earth lays fallow,

The bells of cannons boom,

The men in grey look sallow,

And all is doom and gloom,

All is aflame and burning,

The rifles though, they are anew,

Quiet are the fields the roads,

And, Ravens, many Ravens flew,

Promises, and glory vain,

Though filled with blood where once the rain,

Nourished are the fields laid bare,

Too late we learned, oh what a shame,

The gold is yours, for you to spend,

But too, the hate of others,

Oh God what have you done,

To children and their mothers,

On their knees they pray,

Looking down forlorn,

But there is a voice, but weak,

New soldiers will be born,

Sooner dear or later,

You’ll regret to cause us pain,

We’ll remember all you done,

In sunshine harsh, or rain,

Might it be, you hear our song?

In history books there are the notes,

Sing them often, so you know,

You hurt us all, now trouble it forebodes,

The grey the blue, and greens of dress,

All had their dreams one day,

Yet times have passed and glory too,

In shallow graves their soldiers lay,

For a moment, and for a time,

Your so called glory is but shallow,

Forgotten soon, but other fools,

With beating drums they’ll  follow,

Oh there, look mother there,

With rasping voice is shouting,

Follow me, oh, sons and daughters,

Fierce his face and pouting,

Like a preacher in distain,

A grimaced face, with animation,

He’s firing up the crowd, hurrah!

He’s firing up again the nation,

Now in debt for overspending,

Legendary such a move, and ancient,

For glory and false hopes,

Instead of work and sweat, and so it went,

Labour used to plough the land,

To grow, and trade, and barter well,

In your wallet stays and multiplies,

Instead of guns, that brings us hell,

When on its knees the nation is,

It does not see the starving world,

The real world, and what it does,

Only sees its flag unfurled,

You feel cheated, yet what is,

Think favours you bestowed,

Hard work and labour cheap,

And fields that oxen labour towed,

What is, your patrons have your money?

Like Royalty of old,

Did you not flee them once?

Again they have your gold,

You think advantage is your pride,

Of one and all, but yet the smartest,

For pence you worked and slaved,

And cheap labour is the hardest,

Ask yourself one simple question,

If he can do it why can’t I?

And though you have that hope in you,

Millions first they die,

When you think you had enough,

But others carry on,

Will drink all from the golden through,

Till every bit is gone,

Those are your kings and presidents,

Most die of vanity infliction,

In golden caskets, a million wages rest,

Their worth, is your conviction,©27/02/2017