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.