A last smoke

A Last Smoke

I do not recognise my friend,
as I sit with him to the end,
This face I’d known from boy to man,
split open like a corned beef can.

How can my God allow this hell?
of sniper’s gun – enemy shell,
A battleground where nothing’s gained,
bullet and bombs …a war sustained!

The Generals… they hide and cower,
sitting in their ivory towers,
Then order thousands o’er the top,
if you don’t go you’re for the chop.

Last week we formed a firing squad,
we shot a lad… poor frightened sod!
No one knew who had the bullet,
finger on the trigger, pull it.

That boy whose feeble mind was locked,
was not a coward – just shell shocked,
But they shot the bugger anyway,
on a cold and grey November day.

And now I’m sat here with my chum.
he says his legs are going numb,
I hold a Woodbine to his mouth,
the bullets flying north and south.

I hear a gurgle from his throat,
in that dark place – wet and remote,
Then crimson from his lips it fell,
and to my friend… I bid farewell.

On the 103 year anniversary of the beginning of the battle of the Somme, I make no apologies for posting this poem about the futility and cruelness of war.