World War Three
Till there’s tank tracks in the sheep shit
They won’t let themselves believe it
Till craters scar the black sand
What sins are there to remit?
Napalm on the hardwood. Blood stains on the deck chair.
Sorry,
Not here,
As far as I’m aware
That type of thing
Only happens over there.
But it’s already on your screens.
Guess what that means?
About a handful of years.
From haunting your children’s dreams,
From their real life screams,
From a conscripted end,
To their free and careless teens.
Elections again?
Spare me the pitch
Lying Bastard, Vapid bitch?
Talk to me after the All Blacks, an Allpress
and my morning Weet Bix
But that barbed wire’s not coiled
to keep the cattle in
It’s to kick the can down the warpath,
to keep the battle lines thin
They’re as Indigenous as a sword,
those orders from abroad
that delivered us this horde
I know it gets exhausting
But can you still say you’re bored?
Hamish Kavanagh, I am primarily a fiction writer specializing in social/societal topic matter within my work. Raised in the hills just south of Raetihi, my perspective has always come from a slightly removed position from the world around me. This was highlighted recently during a brief stint in London where I came to realise just how isolated rural New Zealand life is from the rest of the world.
