Jolly! Blighted war, a patron saint for the calling of purpose and glory.
A harbinger for our best, a worthy sacrifice, all in the name of our people as we fight by God's side.
It is a grave that she lives; a testament to her heroic story.
Fought for her people; died with a smile; her life a glorious ride.
Lest you delude yourselves in God's chimes.
There are no gas-bombs, thrown from men in a monster's guise.
There are no bullet hails, breaking lives and shattering spines.
There are no negligible deaths; they lived as they died, their souls residing in heaven; a prize.
Oh, why must war be so kind?
If fury felt fervor; then this must be it—
For how could you delude yourselves that it were a sainted war?
She died in vain; drownin' in the black war, not with glory, not with a smile, not with your damned lies.
Dyin' with a breath pleading for a better life.
She suffocates in a grave, rotten, cold, dead—
While you cheer for soldiers in a chime I abhor.
If there were an afterlife, I wish myself in hell,
For how could I share a heaven with war-mongers, pray tell?