Here you will find the Poem Enemy Conscript of poet Robert William Service
What are we fighting for, We fellows who go to war? fighting for Freedom's sake! (You give me the belly-ache.) Freedom to starve or slave! Freedom! aye, in the grave. Fighting for "hearth and home," Who haven't an inch of loam? Hearth? Why even a byre Can only be ours for hire. Dying for future peace? Killing that killing cease? To hell with such tripe, I say. "Sufficient unto the day." It isn't much fun being dead. Better to le in bed, Cuddle up to the wife, Making, not taking life. To the corpse that stinks in the clay, Does it matter who wins the day? What odds if tyrants reign? They can't put irons on the brain. One always can eat one's grub, Smoke and drink in a pub. There's happiness in a glass, A pipe and the kiss of a lass. It's the best we get anyhow, In the life we are living now. Who's wanting a hero's fate? To the dead cheers come too late. Flesh is softer than steel; Wounds are weary to heal. In the maniac hell of the fray Who is there dares to say? "Hate will be vanquished by Love; God's in His Heaven above." When those who govern us lead The lads they command to bleed; When rulers march at the head, And statesmen fall with the dead; When Kings leap into the fray, Fight in the old-time way, Perish beside their men, Maybe, O maybe then War will be part of the past, Peace will triumph at last. Meantime such lads as I, Who wouldn't have harmed a fly, Have got to get out and kill Lads whom we bear no ill; As simple as we, no doubt, Who seek what it's all about; Who die in defence of - what? Homes that they haven't got; Who perish when all they ask is to finish the daily task; Make bread for the little ones, Not feed the greed of the guns, When fields of battle are red, And diplomats die in bed.