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The Profits of War

The Profits of War

by: Guildford Windley

The Profits of War
Cling, Cling is the sound you hear when the golden coins hit the table
Boom, Boom the sound you hear as the bomb explodes on the villages and towns of the people
Profit to be made from weapons that are made to kill in wars that are manufactured
Misery and pain, for the profits that will be gain on backs of poor souls
The rich and the powerful destiny they wish to attain from profits of war
Lost in the rush to take what is not theirs are the concerns of the rich for the poor souls left to die
War is an ugly business, to steal the wealth and to plunder the Earth
The profits to be made drives the insanity of those who profit from the dead
War has no winners, except for the profiteers
Death on both sides lives shattered in ruin
There goes the dead, there goes the wounded, and there goes lost souls the refugees without a home
Hear the sounds of the drums, hear the words of hate
Muster the military, our foe is not human, they shake their fist and damn our heads
We plead for peace, we just want their land
We have no choice we strike first, can you hear the cling of the coins as the war nears
What fools are we, to fight in an endless war
The deaths that we do score, for what is gain from blood money that is made
We kill; we destroy in the name of glory for our country
But at what price do we give in blood and treasury
Lost is our sons and daughters their innocence forever change
Some die in battle, some return without their whole body
Some come home to a world they don’t know anymore, their body is here but their mind never left the war
What have we done for cling of the gold that falls to the profiteers of war?
We have turned away the peoples, whose home we have destroyed
On streets of our cities and towns, we now have lost souls of those we sent off to manufactured wars
Laying in the gutter is a soldier or sailor who gave what they could for the cause
They laid there as fancy car drive about and rich men on their way to profit from next around of hell
Step over the bodies of the down and out, they give not care for the discarded
For there always young people willing to fight, as the patriot song are sung
As old men speeches of heroic deeds, the drums of war begin anew
Cling, Cling is the sound of gold coins hitting the table!
Guildford H Windley
August 23, 2019

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