“Reaper’s Harvest”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

A world superpower humiliated and lost

While international financiers tally the cost

Headline news made, all around the globe

Grim Reaper stands with stains on his robe

A dot of crimson for each life cut short

Swinging his scythe in a sharp retort

Ships sail on the oceans, there to warn

Of consequences for those who do not conform

Yet this bounty is won by gamblers who cheat

A yield of dissent, a yield of defeat

And the harvest is made

 

Red-faced diplomats argue the point

While barons and bureaucrats bust up the joint

Who is the leader that none will deny?

It’s difficult to tell with a stick in the eye

Missiles and drones and bombs, galore

All intended to prosecute this war

But targets untouched will survive for today

And do daring deeds in the unfolding fray

Devoted disciples of a foreign god

Give the masses a wink and a nod

And the harvest is made

 

At the outset their promise seemed wise and intent

Of a conflict begun between mongrels and government

Savages brought unto heel in a day

With the prize held aloft, they’ll do what we say!

But the rancor of villages far from the fire

So often becomes an anthem of ire

Not easy to thwart, or convenient to stun

These beggars in rags have their own swords and guns

When scattered by the force of a superior breed

They return to the scrolls of an ancient decree

And the harvest is made

 

Leaping and laughing as blood spills on sand

The invaders from afar find themselves being panned

Opinions are hardened as the fault is turned back

From one side to the other, from red into black

The spigots of oil, go dry with neglect

Countries on fire do naught to protect

Alliances shift with the winds changing quickly

Our situation becomes both embarrassing and prickly

The tortoise and hare in a race to the line

This trophy is tarnished, braille bumps for the blind

And the harvest is made

 

A thumping of chests can be heard on the main

With jets scrambling wildly to promote the campaign

A billion in ransom for a cluster of tents

Paid for by sweat and a handful of cents

Much like a battle between one age and the next

We find ourselves facing what infidels reject

Now we are the cause of a glorious goof

A fiddler in flames, played out on the roof

Ours is the glory, and the grand limitation

Of a nabob that natters about rude annihilation

And the harvest is made

 

When we have finished with this dabbling in dirt

And gone home to consider what we could not avert

The time for reflection will then be at hand

We’ll march to the drumbeat of a funeral band

Laying to rest those heroes who gave

Every bit of themselves, the bold and the brave

Their sacrifice will send a message of hope

To judges and jurors who string up the rope

The law of this land remains as a guide

For future generations, to follow the tide

And the harvest is made