War Song Poem by Roy Ballard

Cast aside the fractious fife;
pipes of war unkindly whistle;
calling every dog to strife,
throats to growling, fur to bristle.
Quiet on your pipes of tin!
Quiet now! For very little
brings the grim Old Reaper in.
He will dry your piping spittle.
Those who love the piper's blast
soon are done with martial ardour;
should they save their necks at last
bare and empty is their larder.
Happy, prosperous and more
they who never go to war.