On her watchful ears words are dropped,
some sailing from across the seas,
others crawling from these shores;
none marching as if in a parade.
‘History will absolve us!’ hisses the radio,
ta ta, the grey plastic now lays silent,
to cover it up she tried,
as she does with her toilet.
She wears the posture of a raven,
scavenging the world below she does,
perched all in black: a fly flies no more,
yet she never dons dresses of steel.
A man clad in depleted uranium says: ‘Ratatata!’
‘Drop dead, I am a machine gun;
a soldier, that is what I am.’
‘Oh no!’ she says, ‘I will not.’