The journalist asked nervously:

‘How many Russians have you shot?’

Juggling with his imprecision,

The marksman grunted ‘quite a lot.’

 

I suppose we should not be shocked,

Since he is fighting on our side,

But somehow you feel a shiver

When seeing how so many died.

 

You see them stalked like animals

By cold, nocturnal infra-red.

The night sight clicks; one pot, then more,

Bang! Bang! Job done, they all lie dead.

 

I guess it has to be this way;

Our foes must be spied and halted.

In war life and its end come cheap,

Wrapped in numbers half-reported.