A thug entity, paralysed in starch graves,
Peace will come as you wound the land,
The price of an un-healing vanity.
Those fissures after extraction voided,
Take us to that hole, do it and let’s be done.
The run off will go to trench’s,
On this first day of spring,
Where green shoots will be victims,
Poisoned by betrayal and the hollow crime,
Kill him, Kill, him, a soldiers song
Hanging like rime from a birch forest.
That hinterland, that blood land,
Fertilised by cretin ambition,
Despoil to the victors.
by James O’Brien
