Classic Poem

Here are trophies of the war,
Relics of the battlefields;
Tattered banners, flags galore,
Bayonets and battered shields.
Pistols, lances, shot and shell,
Dirks and daggers. Who can tell —
That bent sabre red with rust,
Might have chopped off some wise head?

Does man profit by this show?
Is there naught that he can glean
From these trophies? Does he know
What these blood-stained relics mean?
Does he cherish them with pride,
Knowing youths have bled and died?
Homes destroyed and laws transgressed?
Men transformed to maddened beasts
By our ministers and priests?

Here are trophies of the fray,
Twisted swords with gleaming blades;
Medals hung in neat array,
Cannons, rifles and grenades.
These mementos of Hell's fire,
Are they objects to admire?
Are the weapons hanging here
Relics that the wise should prize,
When the dull, beribboned spear
Robbed an artist of his eyes?