A Sonnet to God and Country

For God and Country

Ichor does not flow from the human flesh
Nor do rotting corpses bloom with glory,
As so-called patriots loudly profess,
For truth does not fit thine cruel, selfish stories.

Dust thou art, unto dust thou shalt return,
And what ash and dust is the weeping child,
Who is destroyed as he begins to mourn.
This shan’t be seen! the gods must seem still mild!

From whence those incarnadine rivers stem
Is not of necessity, “casualty”,
Belike, sentient youthful women and men,
By thee, suffering greatest agony.

Deprived of love and life by men like thou,
And may thee be haunted by their painful soughs.

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