Another three, another three
Smashed boys have gone to heaven
While in the dirt and in the sand
There lie remains of someone’s hand.
Surely this isn’t what the PM planned?
And don’t forget the other boy
Maimed and weeping, deep in shock
Splattered with mucus, flesh and crap
Victims of someone’s little trap.
Will this, at last, make the PM snap?
Don’t hold your breath
Don’t think about it
Just thank the Lord that you’ve survived
You’ll see the lads on the other side.
Remember son, it’s the PM’s pride.
Your ears and scalp are now quite separate
Skin’s been torched and seems on fire
Those eyes of yours that once did shine so
“And shall I see my love again though?”
The Chaplain feared it must be “No”.
But when you’re back in Blighty, son
Don’t visit the Clinic with your uniform on
As you’ll offend those separate, sensitive folk
And could be judged you did provoke.
Your plans are dashed, and at a stroke.
Surely this wasn’t what the PM planned
As bullets rip through Iraqi sand.
O Master, lead us to the Promised Land!
This poem was written in July 2002. Since when the British Forces deaths have accelerated and currently [10 Aug 2007] stand at 168…………..and counting!