An introduction to those who came to hear our poems of war.

I’m here to thank all those who came
To hear the poems and all our yarns
Now settle back, enjoy this spell
While we take you on a ride through hell.
Through war, where Satan’s angels sing,
You’ll see pictures drawn by a poet’s pen
Of busted torn and twisted things
That once we knew as our young men.

And though we weep for those who died;
Who rest among God’s hosts on high,
It’s those who came through hell alive
For them we weep, my friends and I.
Those tortured souls who sweat at night
Who toss and turn and wake in fright,
With trembling hands that spill the rum—
Then drink until their brains grow numb.

Or the loved ones of our gallant sons
Whose blood was shed for everyone.
The wives, the children, for these we cry:
For the mums who felt their young boys die.
T’was not in vain that they gave birth
And offered up for peace on earth
Their sons, whose blood has set us free
Who will ever live in our memory…… The Anointed.