Saving Face by Jeremy Kingston

I saw a dying soldier with no face.
Something had sliced it off like crust from a pie,
a raw meat pie, some teeth and a green eye
mysteriously still in place.
His best mate, vomiting, had the grace
to kill him - and who would not want to die,
a pulpy red mess, there to horrify
with its disfigured, agonized grimace.

I hear that somewhere safely overseas,
where copses shelter pretty things to hunt
in landscapes carefully designed to please
our leaders look for some face-saving stunt.
There'll be a banquet, lobster, caviar:
I'd make the bastards choke on steak tartare.

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