All that Yakety yak,
Won’t bring the dead men back
Or cease the widow’s tears
Or the young girl’s sad fears,

Said Baldbrush, but that’s what
Happens after a while,
Once a war reaches a
Certain peak or enough’s

Been done and sufficient
Killed to make any peace
A viable option
And the primed pens be held

And the peace papers signed.
It’s that way in all wars,
Whatever the men of
History say or their

Pens write, it was that way
In Nam, and as before,
People dying, maimed, things
Done darkly as if

Insanity had held
All in its frightening
Hold, the weak and the young,
The elderly with their

Brittle frail frames and the
Brave with their forgotten
Names, sunk in the dark fields
Of battles and lost wars.