by grimbeau

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?