War Widow

'Twas with a heart of leaden woe

Poor Alphonze went to war;

And though it's true he did not know

What he was fighting for,

He grieved because unto Marie

He'd been but three weeks wed:

Tough luck! Another three and he

Was listed with the dead.

Marie was free if she would fain

Another spouse to choose;

But if she dared to wed again

Her pension she would lose.

And so to mourn she did prefer,

And widow to remain,

Like many dames whose husbands were

Accounted with the slain.

Yet she was made for motherhood

With hips and belly broad,

And should have born a bonny brood

To render thanks to God.

Ah! If with valour Alphonze hadn't

Fallen in the fray,

Proud Marie would have been a glad

Great grandmother today.

Yet maybe it is just as well

She has not bred her kind;

The ranks of unemployment swell,

And flats are hard to find.

For every year the human race

Richly we see increase,

And wonder how they'll find a place ...

Well, that's the curse of Peace.

So let us hail the gods of war

With joy and jubilation,

Who favour foolish mankind for

They prune the population;

And let us thank the hungry guns

Forever belching doom,

That slaughter bloodily our sons

To give us elbow room.