The noble boy lay dying;
on foreign soil, he fought.
How heroes love to give their lives,
well, that’s what he was taught.
Fodder for the hungry foe;
like a fly into a web.
The brass back home allowed for this;
plans will flow and ebb.
The noble boy to uniform
anew in self-esteem.
Rendered forth the soldier’s song:
the anthem of his dream.
Hailed him the warrior son,
our boy, to proud applause.
Presented with the hallowed gun
to go and fight the cause.
Of loyalty, tried and true
to serve and to obey
old men in suits in dark cahoots
it’s they who have the say.
The noble boy lay dying
on some order close at hand.
His destiny, a casualty;
necessities demand.
The touching words of sad farewells;
the pining nights of fear.
The Sunday pews of mourners
to pray and to revere.
The preacher chose the noble boy
on how to hail the brave.
Commended for his sacrifice,
the ultimate he gave.
A mother’s tears, a lost embrace;
her baby cold in clay.
From summer songs to foreign bombs,
end the boy at play.
With boot and rank in perfect dress;
the honour guard in stone.
A well-rehearsed dance of grief
performed for her alone.
The noble boy lay dying
for a costume made crusade.
In the rubble from the quaking stock
of a corporate grenade.
The suits and ties made their move
to seek their recompense.
The noble boy boxed back home
without a great expense.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: October 1st, 2026 16:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
A poem with a sharp point where corporations stand to gain in production of weapons and wars are fought for gain. Well worded and rhymed it is another of your wonderful works my friend.
As always, Soren, your words are very much appreciated and held in high regard, truly.
Wishing you much happiness, my friend,
Tony.
You are most welcome always a pleasure to read your poetry
The hollowed out brains of cannon fodder.
Beautifully tragic verse,Tony.
A good afternoon from here, Dave,
...and how the cannons are always well fed. Thank you very much for dropping by, kind of you indeed.
All the very best,
Tony.
'More than welcome, Tony.
Fuck, Tony. “Old men in suits in dark cahoots” followed eventually by that boy coming home boxed says so damn much. The people making the decisions remain safely removed from the flesh-and-blood consequences. That final stanza bites hard. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Hello, Tristan,
The repatriation process is so neat, tidy and well rehearsed but God only knows the state of the deceased in the casket and the reason why. Thank you ever so much for dropping by.
Wishing you much happiness,
Tony.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.