They
–Nick Garrard
And what of the empty-headed they,
safe tucked in the armchair bosom,
warm in radio drone
as distant bombs
tumble
and roll
with the weight of crumpled eggs?
And what of the objecting few
Who join in hands and silent pray,
fuss and bother in quiet corners
as foreign boots grind skulls to dust
and pick apart the bones of barren lands.
Have they more say than we,
set apart from our bonds of clay?
In truth we are all one and same,
They are we
and we
are They.