The Old Generals Parade

 

The Old Generals Parade

All the eyes of envy, fell on the Generals, like the trees of Christmas decked,

In finely tuned positions of power, their uniforms set to command respect.

Shiny medals, made of solid silver and gold, hung on the finest silken braid,

Unlike the tin soldiers’ nickel and brass, strung up on cotton, cheaply made.

Where are all the war-torn veterans today, not allowed to steal the parade,

Written off, not a good look, in no fit state of mind, their nerves all frayed.

Some badly burned, wounded, and scared, or missing limbs, moving slow,

Brave soldiers, back from the meat grinder, with not much colour to show.

Haunted with fighting war, with nerves set on edge, too frightened to sleep,

Feeling awkward, back in civilian lives, uneasy with the company they keep.

Plagued with memories, too gruesome to share, that no one wants to know,

Troubled with the burden, the massive weight to carry, everywhere they go.

The President and his men, in attendance, the whole show cleverly staged,

Spare a thought for the tin soldiers, the bloody campaigns, they have waged.

The parade is marching by, with the rank and file, in strict regimental order,

And there is Mother Russia, choking back the tears, fetch her a shot of water.

She came to scour all the Generals empty eyes, to score their wicked souls,

Leaving her mark, for all grieving mums, for when the bell of reckoning tolls.

The brass band is in tune, as expected, they have practiced for weeks on end,

The long lines of tin soldiers keep coming, stretching back around the bend.

The flags and pennants, are flapping in the breeze, all the regimental names,

Where are all the heroes, who never made it home, their lives up in flames?

Cast into the inferno, to fill holes and cracks, no retreating, no coming back,

They have been through the grinder, now their corpses are all turning black.

Here come the raw recruits, as brave as brave can be, and as bold as brass,

They are off to the grinder next, with no idea how long their lives will last.

In this sorry part of the world, the sad war of attrition, is still gaining traction,

Here come the cadets, another generation, keen to get a piece of the action.

They have such romantic notions, of a soldier’s life, no idea the state of things,

To the Generals, what are they? Just lowly pawns, and puppets on the strings.

Every year the parade will repeat, for this is the Generals Day, of military glory,

The are dusted off, and bused to Victory Parade, their presence is obligatory.

Now here come the tanks, and missile launchers, a show of power and might,

What is that booming sound on the horizon? A squadron of fighters in flight.

In very tight formation, whizzing past overhead, chasing each other’s tails,

Shaking the ground, as they pass over, flying low, leaving long vapor trails.

Here come the ghosts, the poor lost soldiers, their presence so sorely borne,

The mountain of grief, too high to climb, each son lost, profoundly mourned.

To fill the void, where time is painfully spent, between each Victory Parade,

The endless bloody trail, whereupon, the blight of this soulless nation, paved.

The patriotic speeches have been made, president has delivered his sermon,

Parade finished, off goes the pied piper of Kremlin, with his band of vermin.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (May 2025)