when troubles come

the chances have been good for wary men
to make their piles and profit from the dead
not for them concern about times when
dreams rise up in the night with sights of dread
nor for the dead trapped in a burning pen
the conscience shrivels in a wealthy head
and those who pile the faggots for the fire
are absent when the last martyrs expire

those who have taken the magician's gold
believe that they've acquired a precious thing
not realising that the game's been sold
and they are bound in service to the king
until the morning when though cruel and bold
they scream as they fall in the fiery ring
for kings are not known for their gratitude
and do not care if you take that attitude

how many dead our sovereign does not care
he's gone upon his travels to see how
the subjects in the distant lands do fare
and how much milk will give the golden cow
expecting that the angered will not dare
to risk the furrowing of his noble brow
besides he thinks we will not institute
proceedings to show that he's a brute

the devil's in the details so they say
and getting out is not like getting in
we can't wish all the difficulties away
or claim that peace and truth are masks of sin
we think that when we enter in the fray
it means that automatic we will win
and not that the old ship of state will sink
ponderous and titanic in the drink

for war's a tough and unpredictable sport
not to be entered lightly with a smile
it's not a game of the genteeler sort
to play on sunny afternoons a while
it's center is a morass in which once caught
each step you take becomes malign and vile
and monstrous horrors come not single spies
but in a huge batallion of smug lies