Lawrence Binyon eulogy
condemned to years of turgid
crass repetition—
if he knew then what we know
that war is manufactured hell
would he have set to
writing pretty propaganda
in nineteen fourteen
one hundred miles away
in a picture book
rustic Georgian vicarage
spewing out doggerel for
the yellow papers
to assuage the fears
and galvanize national pride
in imperial sacrifice
to be ridiculed
and derided by
seventies rebels
in army surplus great coats
sat enjoying themselves in
muddy fields listening to
Van der Graf generator
making a racket
shivering and exhausted
in stockinged feet cos a
playful reveller
robbed your trendy espedrilles
defiantly pretending
you would not rather be
toasting fresh muffins
with a giant fork on the
glowing coals of
the lampblack brazier?
Grimbeau 