There's No Honour In Winning Anymore Poem by Mark Heathcote

Bullets are fired in anger. At the start of a war,  
But frequently, there's no honour in winning anymore.
Hospitals are on fire. The injured are flung onto the street.
Without running water, indeed, life is bittersweet.

Soldiers, they've no more nobility.
Then, say, a cartel drug dealer or a thief.
They've no more sociability.
Then, say the politicians, the liars and card cheats.

Futility is like a mother passing out on her tired feet.
Feeding her baby water, knowing she isn't given to defeat.
The innocent are the victims of remorseless crimes.
Listening to the carnage, as another missile whines.

A population is now marching on its knees.
Begging for humanity and help from overseas
As dysentery and disease are running rife
Some head into the carnage and pray for the afterlife.

Bullets are fired in anger. At the start of a war,  
But frequently, there's no honour in winning anymore.