The Banquet

        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.



(C) Copyright 7 February, 2001
Tristan Jakob-Hoff
All Rights Reserved