War Widow'Twas with a heart of leaden woePoor Alphonze went to war;And though it's true he did not knowWhat he was fighting for,He grieved because unto MarieHe'd been but three weeks wed:Tough luck! Another three and heWas listed with the dead.Marie was free if she would fainAnother spouse to choose;But if she dared to wed againHer pension she would lose.And so to mourn she did prefer,And widow to remain,Like many dames whose husbands wereAccounted with the slain.Yet she was made for motherhoodWith hips and belly broad,And should have born a bonny broodTo render thanks to God.Ah! If with valour Alphonze hadn'tFallen in the fray,Proud Marie would have been a gladGreat grandmother today.Yet maybe it is just as wellShe has not bred her kind;The ranks of unmeployment swell,And flats are hard to find.For every year the human raceRichly we see increase,And wonder how they'll find a place ...Well, that's the curse of Peace.So let us hail the gods of warWith joy and jubilation,Who favour foolish mankind forThey prune the population;And let us thank the hungry gunsForever belching doom,That slaughter bloodily our sonsTo give us elbow room.
Le Ultime News
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