The Banquet
 
 
 

Would that these cutlasses were cutlery

laid out to service some almighty feast,

we'd silence the profane artillery

and bow our heads until all noise had ceased

except the quiet murmurings of prayer

in gratitude for all we'd soon receive.

The smell of roasted flesh would fill the air

and not a single soul would rise to leave

before he had partaken of his share

of tender lamb and loaves of crusty bread

accompanied by good pre-war Sancerre

for which the finest grapes of France had bled.

    And then, once full, we'd stretch out on the grass

    and dream that peace would one day come to pass.