Just like the bodies, plucked and sacrificed

In dirty factories and down in mines,

Like frightened masses, banished to the dark,

Or the timebound terror of the trenches,

Here come the foot soldiers, their destinies

Already marked. Convenient agents

In the hands of the men who know better.

It was ever thus. Some are dead, others

Beyond hope, the rest numbered and dated.

Now ‘Why did they go, did they understand?’

Resonates louder than it ever has.

And what if some did? Does that improve things?

There is such a thing as futility;

It’s playing every day, on phones, TV.