By Mark Cunningham
Before Troy’s walls in times of old
Achilles slew Hector, so Homer told
While Priam cursed and Andromache wept
The butchers bill was marked and kept
And on and on throughout the years
Polished shields and gleaming spears
The phalanx of faces, proud and young
Marching to battle as songs were sung
Sands through the glass through the scythe of death
Torn from their youth, robbed of their breath
From Troy ‘til next Tuesday, from beach to green hill
Blood stains marking the butcher’s bill
Tombstones bleached white in soft fields of clover
I just heard on the news that the war is over
So strike up the band; spread the good cheer
We may not have won, but we’re leaving next year
That at least should help lessen the sorrow
Of the family of the kid that gets killed tomorrow.
Waxings 
This was a beauty, Mark.