Tonight, she weeps in sorrow
for all her lost dead boys;
all those who blindly follow
and believe their leader’s lies.
She’s the universal mother
and she’s black or white or brown;
but her sorrow knows no colour
when she wears a grieving-gown.
The hand that rocks the cradle
has never really ruled—
men assert that privilege
and men are easily fooled.
The price is paid by Woman
in terms of grief and blood,
raising boys for martyrdom
and girls for widowhood.
Bill Fitzsimons