For those who fight, the cup of war Is neither right nor wrong, Each brew too pale, too long in store— Too bitter or too strong. Back home the nodding donkeys dare To spout what soldiers think, But soldiers neither know nor care— The order comes, you drink! The squaddies sworn to drain its dregs Pay no respect to shame, Their missing arms and missing legs Will bleed or rot the same. Their masters bless the stinking cup And fill it to the brink, They’ve not the balls to suck it up— The order comes: you drink!
Dorsington, Warwickshire May 21, 2007