A cancer of Kalashnikovs

To take a thousand lives,

With a callousness of cartridges

A thousand weeping wives.

A murder of machetes,

A vipers-nest of knives,

And the babies rot unburied

While the devil’s foundry thrives.

He works not far from Basingstoke

Northampton and St. Ives.

He’s one of us, you understand,

Plays rugger – good at fives,

Gives to the church at Easter

Replants divots when he drives.

So, for England, he will see that

Every killing field survives.