The Smothering of the Doves by David Mack

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.

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