We worship the Unholy Trinity,

Our Gods of War demand child sacrifice,

Fresh blood must flow for all eternity,

Wide eyed and shiny booted they’re enticed.

Before the altar of Church, State, Arms Trade,

The top-brass gleam in searing summer sun;

Smart ranks of little darlings on parade,

Think: ‘daddy’s war must have been so much fun’.

If they should die, think only this of them:

You bought the lie, admired death’s bloody wares;

Pomp, circumstance, grave-sounding holy men,

Groomed them for death upon our town-hall squares.

Roll up, roll up, play with the field gun:

Its shiny barrel can make death such fun.