There's many ways to win a war. With guns You've got to have the bullets though for those And someone's got to carry them. With tons Of tanks. You got the diesel? Nothing goes Unless there's diesel. Coming in a bit Oh is it? See it come across the bridge That isn't there. With soldiers that are fit For fuck all when there's nothing in the fridge You haven't got. We've got a lot of planes Or will have when we've sorted out the fuel And then we'll soon be splattering your brains And blowing you from here to kingdom come Oh will you now. "Don't shoot! I want my Mum" There's many ways to win a war. With turds Thrown over burning barricades. You got A match? Too fucking right I have. With words You fire them right and you can hit the spot There's other things than bullets make you bleed And other things than bombs to use to teach That woman and the soldier and the seed - In war there's also hearts and minds to reach You take this seed, she said, and when you fall In our dear country, from your lonely grave Will come a bloom so beautiful and tall That no-one will recall the life you gave You're going to blow us all to kingdom come? Oh are you now. "Don't shoot! I want my Mum" There's many ways to win a war. Sun Tzu Had lots to say on strategy, and still He's widely read and what he says is true But these days there are other ways to kill And things that can be done by little men So many ways civilians can play That Sun Tzu didn't know about back then How different a world it is today So many fronts that it's a job to know Which one to fight them on at any time Flak jacket on, my friend, and off you go And I'll stay here and write my little rhyme “They're going to blow us all to kingdom come!” Too right we are. "Don't shoot! I want my Mum" © Gail Foster 26th February 2022
Seeds
Colin’s Garden
For Colin Hopgood, a good man of Devizes, who has been milkman and Mayor, and tends the allotment by Quakers Walk that gives so much pleasure to so many…
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‘Tis Spring on the allotments, in the air
The scent of hyacinths, the sense of bees
The sunlight on the cabbages and trees
And sitting in the greenhouse, on his chair
Remembering past summers, and the Fair
The Kenyan heat, the icy Kennet freeze
The smallest seedlings grown into sweet peas
Is Colin, father, lover, milkman, mayor
…
He’ll tell you, if you ask him, where the boat
That sits amongst the marigolds once sat
He’ll show you his banana tree, and bowers
And time and swans will fly, and barges float
Until he calls his dogs, and doffs his hat
And sends you home with vegetables, and flowers
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© Gail Foster 23rd March 2017