Fragments of hand grenades,
artichokes and lemonade,
rolling hills and bone-dry lakes;
this is the land of our mistakes.
Spit-roasting meat in roughshod shelter,
in the month of June, all must swelter.
Atrophied muscle shrinks to fit;
a withered nation, counterfeit.
Parisian romance and bottled glee
where the sun sets over Normandy.
The Romans rode in snow and rain;
nails hammered in rhythmic, driving vein.
Cast adrift we stand and sit
on waves lapping; a dogged, foaming pit.
All we fight for is dust and shards
where we wander, staring, for a hundred yards.
Knuckled down, we know our sums.
Line us up beside your guns;
wall-mounted, polished and shining bright.
Partisan, we die tonight.