Dear soldier boy, there’s nothing to defend.
Your masters have decided what has worth.
(Dear soldier girl, what irony to send
lives to their death. The womb’s for giving birth!).
Your gun’s a penis which ejaculates
the semen from an angry, stolen mind.
The orgasm you seek now masturbates
itself out through your bombs on humankind.
It’s time to see war’s just a clever way
the powerful maintain their status quo
by mesmerising lads into the fray
who think they have no better place to go.
You’ll find no glory face down in their dirt.
That earth calls on all soldiers to desert.
© Alan Morrison, 2020