Blood On Their Hands (Extended Version) Poem by John Thorkild Ellison

A politician told a lie
Which meant a soldier had to die -
His blood is crying from the ground
But the politician hears no sound,
He's safe and cosy far away
And hopes that they'll increase his pay.
You probably gave him your vote
But this is not a time to gloat.
He told us he was 'a straight kind of guy'
And that he'd never tell a lie.
You may forget the soldier's name,
But his parents know just who to blame,
Their son will never see tomorrow
And nothing can assuage their sorrow,
Life and death are not a game,
They're sick of Tony and his fame,
And I for one would like to see
An end to this insanity
Where life is made so mean and cheap
And men are slaughtered just like sheep,
And no-one gives a bloody damn
That politics is just a sham,
So long as they can have their fun
(And this applies to everyone)
With sport and lager and TV
To keep at bay their misery,
Till they become a race of clowns
Dressed up in human flesh and bones,
Lords of a pointless universe
And children of a lifelong curse,
Doomed to exist on borrowed time
Until they sink below the slime.
God, tell me that it isn't true!
What can a lonely poet do?