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May 1, 2008 at 09:06:15

The Glories of War

by amazin     Page 1 of 1 page(s)

http://www.opednews.com

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We really ought to remind ourselves and our military that people rarely die in wars. No, they are killed. And they are intended to be killed, murdered in cold blood, and not in piddling ones and twos, but by the hundred or, on a good day, thousands.

For a really bumper harvest in the opinion of the experts at the game, the chiefs on both sides with a name for the game such as Hague and so on, the daily score can be in the tens of thousands. - But civilians too?  These days, of course, they can always call it 'a tragic accident' and we skilfully-dumbed mindless public will buy that, won't we?

Wars are very carefully designed to kill as many as possible on all the 'sides' that can decently or indecently be involved. Costly and ingenious armaments are sold to all such parties - usually by the same manufacturers - with the express purpose to do just that.

And men do not pay the supreme sacrifice. They are wilfully sacrificed for the sake of others' pockets, and unless seriously mentally disturbed have to be ordered to kill and be killed under pain of being penalized and even murdered by their own side if they don't or won't comply.

"They shall not grow old"?  No, they are already dead, without having been allowed to live long enough to avoid it.

And, just in case you innocents have been misled, there is nothing particularly glorious about being maimed or just being dead and putrefying. Hang around the unburied or untreated dead for awhile and you'll catch my drift, and theirs. No, in that connection glory is only mentioned by those who want them and you and as many others as possible to share the same ingloriously putrid fate.

Nor is there anything very glorious about the heartbreak of bereaved families, now realizing only too late that the glory of their 'sacrifice' was never anything but a cheap and cynical lie to line some financier's or arms- or oil-baron's pocket.

No, the only glory of war is in the glorious happiness of those who make glorious profits by having armaments made, and then by supplying and selling said armaments with gloriously fat contracts, and for the flag- and patriot-music makers and all our brave politicians who have been paid to bring about the happy condition of war.

The dead are war's tragedy rather than its glory, and the folly and shame of the butchery is ours that, before they plot and cause the next, we don't butcher those who cause and glorify war generation after generation.

So, Reader, don't you think it is about time that we called a halt to this ridiculous farce? Why should we all suffer, just to support a few malignant beasts who want nothing other than the rest of us - if not off the planet - then at least six feet under its surface?

Then what say we start by obstructing the next intended shemozzle against the innocent countries of Iran and Syria, with doubtless oil-rich Venezuela in the sights down the range. Let's tell our evilly conniving and ever duplicitous 'leaders', and those who move them, once and for all to go and take a running jump at themselves.

Or, if in the name of the loot which is all that's holy to them they still insist, then let's just give each of them a very sharp stick, put them where the heat is, and tell them to go right ahead with their glorious war!

And then let's just watch their 'glory'!

 

http://www.justice-publications.com

A grouchy but well-informed know-all with much experience of the low-down low-life infesting and animating 'high-finance', and what to do about it, Keith P. occasionally emerges from the obscure depths of the Youreapeon forests to eye the current world, growl a few obscenities and lurch back into the darkness whence he came.

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A writer is a rogue goose. All other gees fly in a flock formation; every goose knows his place and time for honking. The rogue goose is undisciplined. He leaves the formation indiscriminately to have a look at it from aside. He roams back and forth, takes a peep at the leader, honks a little bit from behind, distracts everyone and writes on what he sees. Time passes and as he wants to return back to his place he discovers someone else there. Thus he either has to wait until they land for rest...

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Mark SashineA writer is a rogue goose. All other gees fly in a flock formation; every goose knows his place and time for honking. The rogue goose is undisciplined. He leaves the formation indiscriminately to have a look at it from aside. He roams back and forth, takes a peep at the leader, honks a little bit from behind, distracts everyone and writes on what he sees. Time passes and as he wants to return back to his place he discovers someone else there. Thus he either has to wait until they land for rest...

to see more of bio, click on member name

Hear, hear! And in 1916 they said it too!

Nursery Rhyme

::::::::


A Poem by Frank Wilmot




One year, two year, three year, four,
Comes a khaki gentleman knocking at the door.
"Any little boys at home, send them out to me
To train them and brain them in battles yet to be."

When a little boy is born feed him, train him so.
Put him in a cattle pen and wait for him to grow.
When he's nice and plump and dear, and sensible and sweet,
Throw him in the trenches for the great grey rats to eat.
Toss him in the cannon's mouth, cannons fancy best
Tender little boys' flesh that's easy to digest.

Mother rears her family on two pounds ten a week.
Teaches them to wash themselves, teaches them to speak.
Rears them with a heart's love, rears them to be men.
Grinds her fingers to the bone, and then... what then?

But parents who must rear the boys the cannons love to slay,
Also pay for cannons that blow other boys away.
Parsons tell them that their sons have just been blown to bits.
Patriotic parents must all laugh like fits.

Rear the boys for honest men and send them out to die!
Where's the coward father who would dare raise a cry?
Any gentleman's aware folk rear their children for
Blunderers and plunderers to mangle in a war!

Five year, six year, seven year, eight.
"Hurry up you little chaps, the captain's at the gate!"
Notes

In 1916 during the First World War a poet named Frank Wilmot (who wrote under the name Furnley Maurice) turned his revulsion at the conscription of young people into this poem. It was set to music in the mid 1950s by Chris Kempster, and when he sang it at a folk session thirty years later, this led to Miguel Heatwole writing an arrangement of it for the Solidarity Choir. That version is on the choir's CD "Ten Years Strong".
http://unionsong.com/muse/songnet/106.html

 

 

by Mark Sashine (42 articles, 19 quicklinks, 227 diaries, 3219 comments) on Thursday, May 1, 2008 at 1:36:21 PM
 

 

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