Blind Faith: 1914

(Condemning the Guilty Hierarchy of One Hundred Years Ago)

When I at last surmount the top in hasty, tumbling terror

And perish in a screaming hail of hurtling, furious steel

I trust my General weeps at my devastating, fatal error

As he witnessed me, but how sadly did he generally feel?

You fool! Do you think your General generally acts heroic?

And casts his precious body uncomplaining in line of fire?

He keeps aloof from fiery Death because he acts the Stoic

For blood, mud and body parts would soil his grand attire.

He is retired a couple of dozen miles in some sweet Chateau

Attended by splendid, fully fledged moustaches by the dozen

Never thinks Old Nick schemes to entertain him down below

Who hopes to learn the General’s secret and call him ‘cousin’.

That secret being a steely, unquenchable belief in sacrificing men

To grind a hundred yards of ground that bleeds the blood of boys

Baleful with Staff, alive to croissants and Champers by half-past ten

Still marshalling regimental remnants to execute other crazy ploys.

Our Tommies told many times of their churning, burning passions

Of lice and rats and officers, targets of their bitter, everlasting fury

But not the German boys who, like ours, fodder in princely fashions

Waved off to handclasp Death in a cycle still not examined by a jury.