The Waste of War

bemoan the music of the land,
When souls have gone afar,
When a young man's heart is sifted like sand,
Or his face is torn and scarred.

No anthem is worth,
The utter great waste,
The enemy's mirth,
However to the taste.

Lift not thy heart,
To the bugle's call,
Keep cross souls apart,
For the result will apall.

Set thy sights to naked land,
Not dressed in glory man made,
Use thy horny hand instead,
to wield a wooden spade.