I wait in a green grassy vale, Among old Whitwick's tranquil hills, Surrounded by both primrose pale, And golden glow of daffodils. I see two pigeons mating, Atop a grey stone cross, Erected in the name of Remembrance of war's loss. It's over in a moment, They do not make much fuss, Though she does perform some gentle pecks Upon his handsome feathered neck. They sit together grooming, And seem a happy couple, On top of a stone monument Erected at great trouble, By baldy apes who cannot keep From marching at the double Off to death's eternal sleep. In nation's name but profit's cause We blast our world to rubble. The pigeons with their carefree coupling Give our pretensions a debunking. For all our solemn ceremonies There are no signs of slaughter stopping. Our feathered friends lead simple lives, We part-smart apes get out the knives. 'Twas Voltaire said we are all mad; But those in charge are mostly bad And dangerous to know. They spout about our country's cause But they don't give a monkey's curse For war and all its tragic loss; So long as wealth still flows to them They view destruction with aplomb. I spoke once to a soldier girl, And pointed out that she'd get shot at. She said that that was quite the thrill: A hero's tale which falls down flat. When we look a little deeper She's really just a young thrill seeker; She'll end up with her limbs hacked off To serve the interests of some toff Who owns an oil pipeline or two. I'm not sure if the soldiers knew (They did not even seem to care) Their fight serves greed of a scheming few. We also serve who only stare Aghast at youths who haven't a clue, And die for the red, white and blue. To youngsters danger gives a thrill, Not grasping that it is no game: They may well have to really kill, Or end up being cruelly maimed. Young British blood has often stained The parched dust of the Afghan plain. This time it seems for little gain: There is no more a world empire For which to sacrifice such dire Things as their youth and health or life. I doubt the pigeons understand Why soldiers' blood soaks in the sand; But oftentimes it seems to me They are far wiser beings than we. The birds fly carefree cross the skies From which our bombs rain down like lies From lips of smirking fat cat's spies Who call themselves our leaders.
It's my impression that we do ourselves a disservice by denying our kinship to the apes.
If we admitted that we were simian, we would understand ourselves better.
Young people often have an illusion of invulnerability which persists until something bad happens to them