Colin F. Jones


We till the same fields with different ploughs,
But the seeds we plant are all the same,
All trees have twigs and leaves and boughs,
And overworked horses all go lame.
All true soldiers from every land,
In youth go hurrying off to war,
Thinking what they do is fine and grand,
That they uphold their nation’s law.
All fair taught by they who greed,
Who wrap their thoughts inside a flag,
Sown in societies furrows like a seed,
That sprout each time their wills do sag,
To bravely waste and die and bleed,
That those who plan the fields can brag.