To make a boy a soldier

Give him a uniform and gun.

Tell him living is a sin,

And to curse the wise who run.

Say “We few, we happy few…” and give them sticky streaming Red

Accompanied by Fear and Black and that ever-present Noise.

Pretend that weapons make them men

Instead of frightened boys.

Bestow your shiny Gold upon the fortunate and dead.

Say to follow every order,

Not knowing to which Hell you’ll be led.

And somewhere in their Towers

Great men are working out the cost-

In bullets and in lives-of a war they hope to win

And every soldier knows they’ve lost.