Mother:
In the hush of dawn, my boy’s breath fled,
A bullet’s kiss from your forged lead.
He dreamed of fields, not fields of fire,
But your machines turned hope to pyre.
What price your yacht, your gilded hall?
My son’s lifeblood stains them all –
A crimson curse on every wall.
CEO:
Madam, war’s just business, plain and true,
We sell the tools, the rest is up to you.
Innovation? It’s all about the green,
Stocks soar on strife, if you know what I mean.
Supply and demand in a world gone mad –
Heroes drop, but our margins add.
Mother:
Defend? You hawk death door to door,
To kings and tyrants, evermore.
My child, a pawn in your lethal trade,
While you reap your gold, whisper fame.
His laughter silenced by your greed,
A mother’s heart forever bleeds –
Torn asunder, raw and pleading.
CEO:
Regret? It’s priced in, like overhead cost,
We forge the future, no matter who’s lost.
Tragic tales sell papers, boost our brand,
Victory’s myth? It’s all supply planned.
Profits leap in the dance of the damned –
We sow the seeds, then cash in hand.
Mother:
Sow and reap? You harvest souls,
Turn brothers’ bonds to gaping holes.
My boy’s eyes closed in foreign sand,
By weapons born from your cold hand.
Curse your boardrooms, your endless gain,
May echoes of grief drive you insane –
Like the wails that haunt my every vein.
CEO:
Harsh world, darling, it’s eat or be eaten,
We arm the winners, the losers get beaten.
A cheque? That’s PR, to hush the cries,
Amend the optics, avert prying eyes.
Truth is, without war’s lucrative bite,
Our empires fade into the night.
Mother:
Your cheque? An insult wrapped in gold,
While my son’s story lies untold.
Profiteer of tears and shattered bone,
In hell’s ledger, your name is sown.
One day you’ll face the widows’ choir,
And burn forever in your own fire –
As I burn now, in endless mire.
Mother:
Yet war devours, a futile beast,
Devouring youth from west to east.
No victors stand on bloodied ground,
Just hollow echoes, silence profound.
Empires crumble, dreams decay –
In endless cycles, we throw lives away,
And mothers shatter, day by day.
CEO:
Futility’s fine, as long as it pays,
Cycles of chaos fill our days.
Peace is a pipe dream, conflict’s the cash cow,
Graves multiply, but look at our Dow.
Contracts in blood, that’s the real grind –
War’s endless loop? Pure profit defined.
Mother:
What mirage? It’s smoke from your design,
Blinding eyes to the divine.
Sons and daughters, fodder for your mill,
Ground to dust against their will.
Your factories hum with false delight,
While orphans weep into the night –
And I, alone, clutch shadows tight.
CEO:
Designs? They’re dollars in disguise,
Markets shift, we capitalise.
Blame the flags, the fools who fight,
We’re just the shop, open day and night.
Neutral? Sure, till the bids come high –
No demand, no dough, we’d wither and die.
Mother:
Neutral? Your ads seduce the throne,
Whispering power through megaphone.
You fuel the frenzy, stoke the flame,
Then wash your hands of all the blame.
My boy’s grave mocks your hollow plea,
A testament to hypocrisy –
Where empty cradles scream for me.
CEO:
Thrones crave power, we provide the thrill,
Drones and zones for the ultimate kill.
Art of war? It’s efficiency’s game,
Swift strikes mean quicker fortune fame.
Every round’s a revenue stream –
Progress? Pounds of profit supreme.
Mother:
Swift? My agony drags eternal,
No end to grief’s infernal journal.
Your “progress” piles the bodies high,
Under indifferent, starless sky.
What worth your tech in widow’s wail?
All wars end where they begin: in fail –
Leaving hearts like mine, forever frail.
CEO:
Grief’s eternal, but so is the buck,
Nations rise on our calculated luck.
Weak fall fast without our shiny edge,
Foes advance, we hedge the pledge.
Profit’s king, might’s just the show –
History proves: cash makes it so.
Mother:
Proven? History’s pages drip with red,
From your ink of lives long dead.
No right in trading flesh for coin,
No glory in the siren’s join.
One day the world will wake and see,
Your empire built on misery –
And I’ll whisper his name eternally.
CEO:
History’s a ledger, balanced in gold,
Wars come and go, our shares are sold.
Flesh for coin? That’s the ancient trade,
Sirens sing, but bills get paid.
The world wakes? To buy more gear –
Misery’s market, year after year.
Mother:
Ancient trade? A curse upon your soul,
Feeding on fragments that once were whole.
My boy’s dreams scattered like autumn leaves,
In winds of war that no one grieves.
Your market thrives on broken kin,
While I drown in what might have been –
A lifetime lost to your deadly sin.
CEO:
Curses bounce off boardroom glass,
We tally wins in market mass.
Dreams are cheap, but ammo’s dear,
Kin breaks easy, fuels the fear.
Sin? It’s strategy, cold and clear –
Without our edge, you’d disappear.
Mother:
Disappear? I’d trade your world for peace,
For one more hug, one moment’s ease.
Your strategy steals the light from eyes,
Turns love to ash under battle skies.
No end to this, your vicious chain,
But in my tears, truth will remain –
War’s profit is humanity’s bane.
