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.
http://www.inpressbooks.co.uk/publishers/hearing-eye/on-the-lookout-1/
