Роберт Сервис. Чудовище

The Monster 

When we might make with happy heart 
This world a paradise, 
With bombs we blast brave men apart 
With napalm carbonized. 
And sing for joy of life, 
We spend our treasure and our toil 
In bloody strife. 

The fields of wheat are sheening gild,
The flocks have silver fleece;
The signs are sweetly manifold 
Of plenty, praise and peace. 
Yet see! The sky is like a cowl 
Where grimy toilers bore 
The shards of steel that feed the foul 
Red maw of War. 

Instead of butter give us guns;
Instead of sugar, shells. 
Devoted mothers, bear your sons 
To glut still hotter hells. 
Alas! When will mad mankind wake 
To banish evermore, 
And damn for God in Heaven's sake 
Mass Murder-War.