Ode to The Politically Correct
                          or
(the language of modern reality)

I have no name, I have no rank,
I've fought in every war there's been,
At sea, the air, and on the land
With sword, with gun, and hand-to-hand.
I've spilt the blood and I've spilt blood;
Been drunk on lust and tasted fears.
I've roared with laughter and cried tears;
I worship War: Odin, Thor and Tyre,
Ares; Vulcan, God of fire;
Yet I spit on all belief.
And if you've lost then I'm the thief
Who takes, then kills that which you love
To leave you helpless, wretched, keening with despair,
The noise that sounds so sweetly to my ear.

And every time you drape my naked, brutal form
to make your flowery, artful mesh with peaceful words deceiving;
When you try to camouflage my stench with clever, innocently sounding prose;
Why, then my friend, all of violent death because of you
Will writhe, will shriek, will feel its awful pain afresh.
And the brutal torments of our life will never, ever close.