all the future's can build.

Embers of burning buildings behind ,
All are dead , too unkind?
Jarred bodies lying, stench o' burnt flesh corrodes the soul,
Leaving the green fields...red.

What a shame, babies screaming motherless wails.
Who will feed them now?
They die in make shift cots,
Rots.

Propaganda pulses, pricked up politicians ,
Never care   'bout,
Casualties of war,
Whose war?

                                 Not Mine.

Why am I here,?  Traipsing through obliterated mush of piled up n' scattered bodies.
I think to myself...Dr Frankenstein could come, pick and choose ,
N' make a real monster come alive,
Then it would be a real fucking horror story.

Then the fuck-wits at Capitol Hill will see,
as they fit the bill of death,
Still choking , trying to spit out war's bitterest pill,
Till their final breath, kills all that future's can build .