Wilfred's bugle, Sambre, France, 1918

(or, the profits of war)

Bugle, dropped,

by a deaded German soldier, later,

found by you Wilfred, lying

by his side, muddied.

Did you play?

Arms, legs, innards, heads.

Bright futures lit by gas,

snuffed out,

blasted.

Brave new worlds

robbed, again and again.

For the few, it's a gas, gas, gas.

A fucking laugh.

Wilfred, did you read Oscar?

Did you have the time?

Smouldering, stuttering you. 

Clear your throat and blow again Wilfred!

Old wounds, unforgiven, unhealed.

Never forgotten.