Run with this cauldron, ladle out soup
To the soldiers of our land
In the field of battle, lay out a cloth
And let them stretch their bloodied limbs as they eat
Their minds are weary, untrusting
Each spoonful less viscous than its predecessor
A succession of leaders repeated in their heads
Every dead soldier, a reason for abdication
The people hate the war they’ve started
The fools!
No matter how much soup I take to them
No matter how watery the broth
Each day they watch me leave the front
Each day I walk alone back to base
And munitions are airlifted daily