War

The Hounds of War are gathered round
To forge the battle plan,
They pat each other on the back,
And grasp their fellow's hand.

To battle stations they disperse
To carry on the fray,
These warriors of the word sublime
That makes us weep or pray.

They swing behind the keyboard now
That spits out their deceit;
Their goal, the end they desire,
That makes their life complete.

These victors suffer no regrets
As they pen brilliant epithets,
And so they ply their lonely craft,
And carve another's epitaph. 

~ Willima Cook