Posts Tagged ‘War’

The Land of the Free quakes,
Disaster looms above,
Or so it’s said,
Many believe it to be so,

Neighbours look sideways at one another,
Rights become targets,
For the firing squad that is corruption,
Few tears are shed,
Even fewer protests are uttered,

Division and hatred,
These weapons of mass destruction,
Maybe orchestrated by a court of white,
Filled with a rogues gallery,
In business suits and colourful badges,

Led by something of a jester,
With delusions of grandeur,
Possessing a nationalist baton,
And a dangerous red button,
Poking the bear and dragon,

The time has come,
A red mushroom cloud erupts,
In the shape of a pachyderm,
The Land of the Free is no more,
The world is ending.

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After months of planning,
The sea lion begins its attack,
Teeth bared,
A black cap upon its head,
And an iron cross on its breast,
Its minions swarm overhead,
Ready to drop hell upon the Isle.

Who can stave off the sea lions bite?

Men of the Isle,
Exiles from the east,
And allies from the west,
The bravest of pilots,
The Few.

They take to the heavens,
In their seraphs of war,
Raging Hurricanes,
And surging Spitfires,
Aces against the storm.

Remember their heroism,
303rd, 401st and 312nd,
Remember their names,
11th, 74th and 609th,
Brothers and comrades,
The Few.

The Battle of Britain calls,
This will be their finest hour.

TheFew

As gunfire erupts,
And bulletproof angels squabble overhead,
And tracers flitter here and there,
A lord of war takes to the field,
A knight of the brine approaches,
Even the mighty sea herself quakes at its coming.

A cascading tempest of fire and brimstone,
A man-made tidal wave,
A force of human nature,
Even as brothers of the fleet rot and burn all around,
The knight of brine surges forth,
Bellowing hellfire and smoke.

Ahead full!
Onward!
To victory!

Brine

Stooped low upon a lofty throne,
A necromantic monarch,
Shrieks in fury,
Such undying hatred washes over his bones,
The azure moon calms him not one drop,
The living remain alive,
And the dead remain below.

With an incensed scream,
He calls upon his legions,
Rotting knights and fetid footmen,
Shadowy beasts and mad spirits,
Rusted iron and filthy nails,
Anguished moans and eerie corpse-lights,
Driven onward by their dead liege.

Compelled by a rage that never dies,
The dead legions advance,
Marching under the moon,
Fracturing defenses under the moon,
Slaughtering innocents under the moon,
The dead are now unrivaled,
And the living are no more.

A decomposing monarch has his victory,
The nefarious King of Scythes,
Do you hear him coming for you?

King

Oh little toy soldier,
Why do you cry?
Wooden hands held tight to your face,
Gluey tears oozing southward,
Unheard sobs in the toy box.

Oh little toy soldier,
What are you afraid of?
Build by corporate talons,
Driven onward by unfeeling authorities,
Led to fight for your spiteful toy box state.

Oh little toy soldier,
Grab your pop gun.
It is time to wage war,
On all of those other toy soldiers.
They are of different toy box colors.

Toy soldier

Hate me not for my cowardice.
Hate me not for me gutlessness.
Hate me not for my shoddy aim,
Nor my quick feet.

Hate me not for my surrender.
Hate me not for my skyward hands.
Hate me not for my lost friends,
Nor my guiltless enemy.

Hate me not for my treason.
Hate me not for failing my nation.
Hate me not for refusing to kill,
Nor dropping my gun.

Hate me for my white flag.
Hate me for retaining my love.
Hate me for siding with my conscience,
And keeping my humanity intact.

So-called courageous and heroic souls,
Can you say the same?

Coward