The war brought out their misfortune,
Laid every problem bare,
Revealed what hopes they had were none
(Though nothing was ever done about that in peace time),
Showed all their trappings
Blown off in the first light breeze
(Unfortunately this was a thunderstorm)
And that every worldly care
Was a bottom’s fart
Exploding in their faces.
Naturally, the best were shot, sent to The Front
Where All Dead Men Go,
And those left behind
(Too young , too nice, too scared,
Had to make the best of what they had.
This wasn’t difficult –
There wasn’t a lot.
THE FIRST BOMB DESTROYED MAJOR CITIES,
And what was left,
Was to be eaten with care
Since it was the last thing ever to be eaten.
The Old Women wailed, but they had been the ones
Who started it all:
A million seething hates
Makes up a Big Picture of Hate
And they’d hated – how they’d hated!
(Never believe that women are weaker than men!)
Not that the men were perfect –
They’d stirred the pot
(But never at home, that was WOMEN’S work!)
Oh yes, to blame it all on men is unfair,
Though the ones for Peace had soon succumbed to base emotions.
It was the Falkland’s all over again,
Or Diana the image, in a nation that had nowhere to go,
Quite perfect for starting a war.
Well, what’s a war when it’s on somebody’s else’s land?
Only this one
Was Over Here.
The elections hadn’t helped,
So near, so little hope,
Something had had to be done.
When the moment for peace came,
The Prime Minister Walked Away
And History (there wasn’t much left)
Would have been revised, the moment air-brushed out
So that all who read the text-books could see
How It Wasn’t Our Fault.
But there now, it’s done,
No celebrations, no thanking God for our victory
(For God is righteous and favours whites, Anglo-Saxons and the wealthy, in that order),
He is Mighty and helps us
(But not our enemies, who must suffer and perish in eternal fire).
Well, of course the fires are out now,
They only last a week or two and then the firestorm’s
And the politicians – well, what can one say?
They were never of much interest and now they’re of
Still, Life Goes On.
(My charred limb fell off yesterday, but the rest of me’s O.K.)
Bit late for changing things, really –
I pray, well, naturally I pray,
There’s not a lot else to do.
Once the screams had died with their owners
There was only silence,
Apart from the black rain and the odd ferocious wind.
I pray, yes I pray,
I pray for Hope, although really that’s all gone,
And a peaceful death
(Though death doesn’t bother me any more, I’m too numb)
And for my children, who died,
Though one of them still shrieks in my head:
Hell, I’ve got it lucky, really,
At least I’m almost sane.
That was one thing that was never done –
I never prayed, yes, I was never told how to.
Now of course I’m learning fast, but then –
Well, there were too many idiots who’d staked a prior claim,
Too many groups with copyright name of their own Wise One
And I avoided that strange game –
I only wanted a God who spoke to me,
Someone or something to set me free –
And there wasn’t one.
So I’ve invented one.
It’s called God,
And we try and listen to each other,
And I thank God,
And God thanks me.
There now –
Anyone who had to live through the Thatcher years can relate to how easily and conveniently wars can be cooked up.