The Next War

You young friskies who todayJump and fight in Father's hayWith bows and arrows and wooden spears,Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers,Happy though these hours you spend,Have they warned you how games end?Boys, from the first time you prodAnd thrust with spears of curtain-rod,From the first time you tear and slashYour long-bows from the garden ash,Or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather,Binding the split tops together,From that same hour by fate you're boundAs champions of this stony ground,Loyal and true in everything,To serve your Army and your King,Prepared to starve and sweat and dieUnder some fierce foreign sky,If only to keep safe those joysThat belong to British boys,To keep young Prussians from the softScented hay of father's loft,And stop young Slavs from cutting bowsAnd bendy spears from Welsh hedgerows.Another War soon gets begun,A dirtier, a more glorious one;Then, boys, you'll have to play, all in;It's the cruellest team will win.So hold your nose against the stinkAnd never stop too long to think.Wars don't change except in name;The next one must go just the same,And new foul tricks unguessed beforeWill win and justify this War.Kaisers and Czars will strut the stageOnce more with pomp and greed and rage;Courtly ministers will stopAt home and fight to the last drop;By the million men will dieIn some new horrible agony;And children here will thrust and poke,Shoot and die, and laugh at the joke,With bows and arrows and wooden spears,Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers.