They trained you well
To jump at command
A new born killer
Gun in hand
Aged eighteen
Drinks with the lads
Band of brothers
In foreign lands.
You kill for pay
Not because of will
Those who sent you
Watching still
From far away
Their money to count
War means profit
Patriotism they shout.
To return
To home once more
There are so many
Without a front door
Time it does not
Wash blood away
Nor grow new legs
Is what I say.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Online) - Published: November 9th, 2026 03:21
- Comment from author about the poem: The soldier and civilians pay the price, those behind war make their fortunes
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
Online)
Comments1
Mercenaries the bottom level of the money game where the common man is ground up in a war machine of profit making. Well done
thanks my friend, much appreciated
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