O let there be no further green on blue.
I think this most desirable. Do you?
And let there no more be much green on green,
The worst news at the door young wives have seen.
And let us come home soon, dear God,
From paths no Diggers should have trod,
From slaughter this year, once again,
Of goats and poppy fields and men,
And wide-eyed children, wondering why
Their father so soon had to die.
His father too, for no known crime.
It’s how our Diggers pass the time
When they, long sleepless, dream of when
They’ll reach out for their wives again,
And half believe they’ll hold them soon,
If they get past the next full moon.
Afghanistan, unconquered yet,
Has messed up one more overlord, you bet,
And brought to weeping, with good cause,
Fools who still fight missionary wars
Like Bush and Blair and Howard, men
Whose like we will see, yes, again,
Whose God says go, go, go, ye shall not fail,
And then sucked in, sucked in, sucked in. Wassail.