Armies march. Soldiers do what soldiers do,
Soon battlefields are littered with corpses.
Flocks of crows circle high above and
Farmers smile, saying to each other, “Good fertilizer that.”

Armies march. Generals do what generals do.
Corpses pile high , rotting in the fields and trenches
A new countryside: Fields unexpectedly picturesque
Poppies nurtured by death.

Armies march. Wars do what wars do.
Warriors slaughtered, unburied, replaced.
Death painful. Death painless. Obliterated
War poetry a cosmetic cover.

(Chris)