Machines of WarMachines of war are little less than men. Debated about, Spoken out, Written with a pen.Machines of War
Soldiers dressed in scarlet uniform, Head held high they do perform. A sworn duty which lies ahead, Orders from a country whose moral’s long been dead
Back home a web of quarrels weave, Accusations of imperialistic backstabbing lies. While across an ocean 3000 miles wide, Soldier’s spirits are skewed and die.
The families of the deceased do weep, Doused in feelings of love run deep.
It shall take the demon hand of war, Stretch up its grip,
