Tiffin
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?