War

The Mum knits
The kid goes off to the war
It seems kind of normal, to the Mum
And the Dad?
What’s the Dad up to?
He’s got his job
His old lady’s got her knitting
His kid’s gone off to the war
He’s got his job
It seems kind of normal, to the Dad
And the kid?
What about the kid?
What does he make of it all?
Sweet fuck all
His old woman’s got her knitting
His old man’s got his job
And he’s got the fucking war
And when the war’s over
He’ll get a job
Like his old man
Anyhow the war goes on
His old woman goes on with her knitting
His old man goes on with his job
He gets his fucking brains blown out
He doesn’t go on
He goes under
The Mum and Dad
Go visit the grave
Which seems kind of normal
To the Mum and Dad
And life goes on
A life of knitting, the war, the job
War, knitting, war
Job, job, job
Life in a bloody graveyard.
— Jacques Prevert. Familiale (2), translated by Alastair Campbell

I liked it better in ’65 and ’66. Then it was just you against them. Now you just sit back and get blasted away or they do. That ain’t no fun.
— US Army Special Forces trooper during the Vietnam War

Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.
— From Wilfred Owen’s Arms and the Boy

People who get up early in the morning cause war, death and famine.
— Banksy