'' Part Of Our Past '' Poem by Bri Mar

The intelligent one,
Is never done,
Creating their destructive inventions,
After all their wars must be won,
Thereafter they hold their conventions.

Peace is their aim,
That word they defame,
For they want what the other has got,
To the men in suits wars are a game,
It's all part of their dastardly plot.

They start a war,
We don't ask, what for,
Over how many deaths they are mulling,
Over-population our leaders abhor,
So between them they start a mass culling.

While we blindly obey,
They go their own way,
You'll have noticed our leaders don't fight,
Over our deaths they have final say,
That fills them up with delight.

With corruption they're rife,
It's austerity with life,
Their economies must be maintained,
Whether we're killed by the gun or the knife,
With lethargy, they are ingrained.

When enough of us die,
They'll pretend to cry,
Promising we will be remembered,
If truth be told it's part of their lie,
As our corpses are being dismembered.

If the masses said no,
We refuse to go,
Sending our leaders would leave them aghast,
Though initially it would come as a blow,
Wars would soon be,

‘' Part Of Our Past ‘'