War poets are weary; they’re weary of war.
War poets aren’t war poets, not any more.
They’re cool connoisseurs of conflicts gone cold;
they’re battle-hard veterans who war cannot scald!
War poets aren’t burning with anger no more.
They’ve swapped no man’s land for sun by the shore.
War’s cruel, callous killing no more strikes a chord,
from playing at war games war poets are bored.
War poets, to war zones, no longer return.
For blood-spattered battles they no longer yearn.
Their pens, once outspoken, indignant and loud,
like guns, they’ve fell silent, as soldier in shroud.
War poets have wandered from flowerless fields,
where poisonous poppies the soil no more yields.
They’re sick of the shrieking and screaming of shells,
ground down by defeats like those damn Dardanelles!
War poets are weary; they’re weary of war,
once savage, they’re timid, in tooth and in claw.
But as poets of peace they’ll never be known
till the ogre of war has been overthrown.