Would that these cutlasses were cutlery
laid out to service some almighty feast,
we'd silence the profane artillery
and bow our heads until all noise had ceased
except the quiet murmurings of prayer
in gratitude for all we'd soon receive.
The smell of roasted flesh would fill the air
and not a single soul would rise to leave
before he had partaken of his share
of tender lamb and loaves of crusty bread
accompanied by good pre-war Sancerre
for which the finest grapes of France had bled.
And then, once full, we'd stretch out on the grass
and dream that peace would one
day come to pass.
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