In olden days when man fought man,
With the nearest that came to hand,
Some smithy still had it to make,
That shovel, ax, scythe or that rake.
Each item in the above list,
Was more “effective” than a fist,
Yet it readily meets the eye,
Their right use was in farm or sty.
Man learned to make, in later yore,
Cold instruments only for war.
The shield, the spear, the two-edged sword,
Made this man dead, the other lord.
Again there’s a weapons maker,
Some ancient “mover and shaker,”
Made the sword sooner blooded-red,
“Creating” rows of grisly dead.
Then gunpowder was invented;
Rage could be distantly vented.
Killing was done at longer range,
Only the weapon had a change.
It still had a human who made,
The gun which pulled down death’s cold shade.
More made, the more he was able,
To stack gold upon his table.
Behind every gun of war’s time,
Behind the soldier’s funeral chime,
Lives a man who’s making his gold,
From killing machines he’s just sold.
Bigger they are the more they cost,
Now more husbands and sons are lost,
But you dare not once forget it,
The cash – they don’t once regret it!
Money’s made “by bundles” in war,
That’s a big reason for the gore.
Many die while a few get rich,
(Don’t buy the “political pitch,”)
Greedy men lie at home in ease,
Buying most anything they please,
While sons, boyfriends die there forlorn,
And a nation’s glory is shorn.
Eternity will soon reveal,
The weapons maker’s crooked deal.
Greedily making a “huge pile,”
Caring little that after while,
Boys come back in box after box,
Never again to hunt the fox,
Weapons were sold at twice the price?
Selfish old men think that quite nice.
“Follow the money” saying goes,
Is true also for war’s sad throes.
Push the battle, shoot the next shell,
(Thus sending many to hot hell)
Matters not to the money king,
More weapon sales, make him to sing,
While on yon hill a widow weeps ─
O, the blood-money of war creeps.
– eab, Mar. ‘06
Separate-Holy 