“I don’t wanna be a soldier, mama
I don’t wanna die”
— John Lennon.
The fan, an irritable rotation makes.
Hardy’s soldier: he’s slunk and gloomy.
But, a patriot, he has no choice
As he listens to waves of his ocean shore
Toss back to land memories. His new spiked foe
Has died and post-mortem he strives
As, of all quesries, why: “Why did I kill him”?
Sweet Thomas Hardy hardy soldier in
His stream of consciousness swim
Past boulder, bolder. Far off the Indian Ocean floor.
Personality and courage are myths
Man invented. Power-wielders’ concoctions,
They sully noone’s conscience
As conscience is a myth. The man who led you
You will lead off by force and keep a gun on his chest
And, perhaps, treat him if met by a bar
To whatever drinks the mess rules wiser
For the brains. Or, shoot him on the head
If met with an anti-governmental slogan
And re-load the automatic, as he slumps to the drains.
Thinks Hardy, pen in hand, sitting down
One evening: would the thoughts of a soldier
Its own complexity know? Dressed up to suit the tinge
Of manipulations and lies, they — the straw dogs
And armoury — disfranchised; seldom more.