Alcohol, warmongers, delusions, heist,

Drugs, politics, despair, powers…

Deceit, robbery, Kommerce, Khrist.

Krap. Krupp. Last bar orders.

The ones left behind, unfit for battle,

Drunks, flat-feet, obese, sick and old

Drink to forget this war or another

Senseless, penny-less, useless…

Together to forget they are alone.

The soldiers in the trenches, on standby

Fifteen thousand miles from Gundagai

Drink to forget they’re going to die

Not because they are a bad soldier…

They make excellent targets as Fodder.

Drunk, they walk funny, left and right,

Delaying the aim of the shot that might

Eternitelise them forever.

On this day, the odds are one for two will die, 

In a bomb crater. 

The other will loose a leg or two.

All the trees are naked stark

And black — and shadeless, floating through

The smoke of cannons that blocks sunlight.

The soldiers can’t hear because eardrums 

Have been drummed out by machine guns

They can’t talk because

They have “a touch of gas” — a little. Not enough to

Be sent back to the back on a stretcher. 

Tanked up, the soldiers can barely see

The storming ahead waived flag 

While they hoped for the white flag

They are drunk, pissed, drunk…

And death seems so sweet.

Away from the mud, muddy mud.

The generals scratch their head. Winning is their game.

Assault. Mad forward motion. Hurried retreat. 

Pain. Defeat.

Sacrifice is a dirty word, that is not reciprocated.

You’re dead, your mates live, maimed.

They drink and drink in your name

At the pub of shame, cheers full of blame

And shadowy new pain,

Until they can’t remember the medals

Nor the bullet that got you front middle…

You had your last drink and you remain thoughtless.

Foreverless.

Robert Urbanoski

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