a wider hell

the choices that we make are always hard
but guns and butter that one should not be
as difficult even an aristocratic fool can see
that few wars are worth the young lives marred
and the kindred sitting outside in the yard
weeping hot tears that could fill up a sea
then there are those with minds and bodies scarred
we see them begging on the winter street
their rags of uniform no longer the clean proud
symbol of a democracy with values of bright gold
in each face there's a personal defeat
that tells us volumes though not one is loud
and all they ask is shelter from the cold