Colin F. Jones


War is sick, cruel and harsh,
A bedlam of torrid tones,
A putrid crimson marsh
A symphony of moans groans.
It is callous murderous thought,
Vicious contempt and hate;
It is an Angel in a furnace caught,
With a Devil for a mate.
It is filth and rotting waste,
Pain and death and fear,
It is goodness forever defaced,
And bitterness shed as a tear.
It is Nature’s way on the Earth,
Else God’s sordid mysterious mirth.