The spoils of war

On a cold and bitter winter's day,
I swore a solemn oath, to say
I'd serve my country for three years;
The Army needed volunteers.

Some fifty years have passed, and yet,
It was a time I can't forget.
The memories are sharp, I find,
And now and then, they come to mind.

Old soldiers like to brag, and pitch
Warm tales about their army hitch;
Whenever army buddies meet,
they tend to relive every feat.

They talk of passes into town,
Where willing women could be found,
And hint, at times they were uncouth,
But always blame their gaffes on youth.

They push away reality,
And fears for their mortality;
They know that they were there to kill,
Or, be listed on the butcher's bill.

Their memories fade, and turn into
Old snapshots, with a softened hue,
And sanitized, as if a war
Is what men were created for.

It wastes our time to moralize;
It's plain, that war is what we prize.
It must be true, and if you look,
The proof's in every history book.

One far-off day, when men are gone,
And earth still turns around the sun,
What reader of the cosmic plan
Will sorrow for the loss of man?