In Memory of Wilfred Owen
Glory's the lie wars cancer feed upon,
You said. You told the truth: that war is hell,
But now the guns are still. Your task is done.
The tales of glory that the old men spun
You showed as lies - you broke their hateful spell.
Glory's the lie war's cancer feeds upon.
For all the dead, destroyed by gas or gun,
Yours was the voice that questioned why they fell -
but now the guns are still. Your task is done.
War was the enemy, and not the Hun.
No glorious combat: gangrene, gas and shell.
Glory's the lie war's cancer feeds upon.
The gun that spat your hasty orison
Could never kill the bitter truth you tell,
But now the guns are still. Your task is done:
And when the final war on death is won,
The unnumbered dead will have their passing-bell.
Glory remains the lie war feeds upon,
And other guns boom still: our task goes on.
Qui Desiderat Pacem, Praeparat Bellum
Safeguard virginity through fornication,
Guarantee chastity by being a whore:
Stockpile your weapons, bring peace to the nation:
"If you want peace, you must prepare for war".
Combat Training
Remember, he is something less than man:
He is a kraut, a terrorist, a jew.
He'll try to rape your sister if he can:
Remember, he is different from you.
It isn't really murder, after all:
It's best to think of it as just a kind
Of cleansing operation: pest control.
That makes it easier, I think you'll find.
When duty calls, will you shrink back, afraid,
Or stand up with your comrades, firm and strong?
Go out and show the stuff of which you're made,
And make your pledge "my country, right or wrong!"
Ignore your conscience - soon you'll find you're willing
To do what normally you would abhore.
Demean the victim, euphemise the killing,
Follow the crowd - remember, this is war!