take all your overgrown infants away

somewhereand build them a home a

little place of their own

the fletcher memorial

home for incurable tyrants and kings

and they can appear to themselves every day

on closed circuit t.v.

to make sure they're still real

it's the only connection they feel

"ladies and gentlemen, please welcome reagan and haig

mr. begin and friend mrs. thatcher and paisley

mr. brezhnev and party

the ghost of mccarthy

the memories of nixon

and now adding colour a group of anonymous latin

american meat packing glitterati"

did they expect us to treat them with any respect

they can polish their medals and sharpen their

smiles, and amuse themselves playing games for a while

boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead

safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye

with their favourite toys

they'll be good girls and boys

in the fletcher memorial home for colonial

wasters of life and limb

is everyone in?

are you having a nice time?

now the final solution can be applied

southampton dock

they disembarked in 45

and no one spoke and no one smiled

there were too many spaces in the line

gathered at the cenotaph

all agreed with hand on heart

to sheath the sacrificial knifes

but now

she stands upon southampton dock

with her handkerchief

and her summer frock clings

to her wet body in the rain

in quiet desperation knuckles

white upon the slippery reins

she bravely waves the boys goodbye again

and still the dark stain spreads between

his shoulder blades

a mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves

and when the fight was over

we spent what they had made

but in the bottom of our hearts

we felt the final cut