Snatch

Snatch.

We lie in state almost
still forever inside
blood red
vein blue ghost
white draped boxes denied
solemnity as colleagues sped

around below
victims of their own improvisation
deterred little by lethal threats
forcing them only to slow
at fords and small bridges of irrigation
ditches reinforced by Persian Exocets

Homing in on pressure of a Landies unlucky wheel
inside brave fools of their own endeavour
soon to be casualties of other men's wars
too professionally cold to steal
notions they might be being robbed by clever
profiteering scum whose sins exist in scores

marking wrecks down as a neat bit of kite
deaf and blind as our badly burnt brave boys
calling for change from sterile rooms of curtain partitions
denied their voice, opinion and sight
while many mobile morgue deploys
groaning chassis unhindered by missions

induced fatigue or concentrations lapse.
Punishing terrain negotiated
quicker than crooked procurement
replaces four by four death traps
before lower house debated
families opted for private interment

Buried deep in temporary aluminium recesses
twixt five fresh Jackals bound for the front
nine zeros they cost to deliver
Too late for whimsy guesses
of how to orchestrate Osama's hunt
pine three inches from my nose, shrapnel in my liver

Cirrhosis of depleted uranium, Pax cashed,
protection no longer required
irony drapes guiltless shoulders
in ignominy at equipment hashed
deficits covered up by hoards of hired
yes men whose solution solders

fate belying safety
for men protected by less waxed canvas
than Hoon's daughters wedding marquee repair patch
continuing deliberately
to let lucrative deals pass
blowing teenagers to smithereens for some cheap old British Snatch.