Colin F. Jones


The culling machine spreads flame and fire,
Across the peaceful land,
And turns the pastures into mire,
And the croplands into sand.
The oils and fuels which drive it on,
Are the chemicals of its desire,
Designed by nature every one,
To be destroyed by its own fire.
Its will is formed like sexual lust,
That in absence will not inspire,
The smallest interest in a bust,
Nor the will to be a sire.
Despite itself the culling machine,
Will not from war retire.