Bread and circuses

Eleventh hour has passed again:
Wrinkle capped Men wreathed,
Widowed, psychopath onlookers grieve
Under a common grey sky, have

Fallen beneath the wheels of the cart again,
The grinding machinations grate
At furies far flung
And little understood by those too civilized

For wars that come undone:
Dare we criticize now, in the time
Of glowering, decorated men
That guard the blood tradition?

Who are we to question how the millions
Are spurned and the billions are spent
Or even, the manner in which they burn?
Eleventh hour falls through the cracks of

Honour bound time, while most toil on
And disregard, not out of callous neglect,
Or lacking respect,
But more banal, are just barred, by those

Grey suited congenital generals, who have them
Unquestioning, by the balls,
Up to the clock punch
Of death and beyond, if it would profit

Less will remember, in a language of forgetting
When wars are thick and fast, hard to pick, which fight
We’re on now
Do us a favour, lest we forget, let us catch

Up to the killing not yet done
Any tick of the clock and,
The war will be won,
And the staggering speechless,
Breathe once more and move on.