Poet Laureate, you had written well
Of Waterloo and its wicked swell
Of thirty thousand men fell dead.
Of old women, whom tyrants stole their bread.
For what aim was it that the bodies piled high?
Did they really, or is it just poetic lie?
Regardless, at Borodino they stood fifteen foot tall
The gore of a multitude torn asunder by cannon balls.
For Napoleon’s ambition, and worldly gain
Men swept through Europe, Russia and African plains;—
Men were killed, women raped, children dashed
Against the rocks. Their feverish souls were mashed.
Great men who start a war
For the sake of glory always fall short.
For, at the end of the days
Even Antichrist with all of his fame
Will do what every great man had done.
He will aim two ways his gun
And fight in two directions
Get lost in Russia, like he’d never learned the lesson.
For great men will do what has always been done.
They will begin with a powerful firing of the gun.
Then, they in small numbers will pile men high
Gross bodies of women, children and cries
Will be heard among the most savage of men
That they wish the battles would come to an end.
Bloody reigns of a man of this world
With no Christian patience, do make the guns hurl.
Do know this is the last sort of defense.
That Antichrist will have won the Earth
But lost to our Hope in Heavenly glens.
For he will have expended all terrible force
To subdue this great plain,
Our fallible earth.
And when he has done, and lost so many of our foes
The LORD and His angels will kill him in the mightiest flow.
B. K. Neifert 