Poem: A Comforting Notion

The multitudes of now-anonymous soldiers on the fields

Of Agincourt

And at Hastings

And everyplace else

Where unimportant men took the sword in their guts

So that their betters, the royal ones,

Might have more land to control and glory to drink,

As though the applause of history were nectar that could be stored

For thirsty days when the mistresses held no interest —

These men, these victims of circumstance and hereditary blindness,

Went to death proudly

If not willingly

Proving perhaps that the effete class of modern worriers,

Those of us brooding on our end,

Are wasting what little time our royals grant us,

Fretting and pondering when we should be

Drinking mead and singing songs.