Warmonger

I see him,
In cast-iron visage,
A harbinger of arms dealer joy,
Illuminated in the brimstone of industry,
Lighting up a cuban next to sea mines,
Counting rounds as if an attentive sire,
A self-appointed god of war,
Bestowing energetic gifts of abhorrent blitz,
To all of the unlucky boys and girls,

He visits foreign agoras,
Grinning with teeth of bullets,
He’s extant behind every shell-shocked orphans eyes,
As they grieve for yesterday’s barrage,
Slumped upon sun-scarred plains,
Torn and battered by winds of heavy calibre shells,
Despite this carnage his friends cheer him on,
There is profit to be made,
But first comes the war,

For the bliss of it all.