They put Putin’s head in the frame
to justify the Trident myths.
Building warships on the Clyde
in the name of jobs for men,
using foreign steel to forge the hulls,
while British steel is left to rust.
Hawks chant the threat of all-out war,
enlist the cash of armchair troops
with bloody hands arm deep
in buying weapons for their gain.
The blight of conflict in far off lands
cannot gratify the need for profit.
A missile worth ten-thousand Kalashnikov
fills the coffers quicker.
No matter the annihilation of ancient towns,
the plight of those that flee the fight,
the food banks on austerity street,
the cries for help
strangled by the flag.