(This poem was born of a Newsnight blogger's comment in 2008. Serendipity in 'spades'.)

 

The arms of the world reach up in despair

A desperate child, with no mother there;

As the armaments industry fashions war-ware

There is not much call for ploughshares.

 

The artisan’s hand cupped Britain’s prowess

When the smith made and mended the tools of success;

His arms now have yielded to mayhem and mess

And there’s not much call for ploughshares.

 

Our industry hums as the arms take on life

Assembled by willing hands – daughter and wife;

Taken up in far lands to facilitate strife

Where there’s not much call for ploughshares.

 

To cry “Halt!” killing jobs, that would be suicide!

Altruism’s besmirch, politicians deride.

What? Lose the election – talk sense man – besides

There’s never much call for ploughshares.

 

The arms Britain sells: ‘strictly meant for defence’

But Terror’s defeat equates guilt’s recompense

Such that swathes of the world lie untended – whence,

There is not much call for ploughshares.

 

Mother Nature armed man and put fight in his head

That the strong might endure to plant seed in her bed

But Nature, herself, profane war leaves for dead

So there’s not much call for ploughshares.