Spitting on Graves

In gaudy prose we drape our dead, with joyful mantra cheer.
We tell ourselves, in every case, "for freedom!" death came here.

Each life now lost, each mother's son, each father's precious daughter,
transacted for a higher end well-worth a bit of slaughter.

All's ever done for freedom's sake; no evil cause we mouth:
"Freedom for slaves!" the Union boys; "Freedom for states!" the South.

We've never asked soldiers to act outside the will of God.
We've ever walked the righteous path and trod where saints have trod:

Our great land's glorious narrative, we pronounce quite free from sin.
(And indignation cleanses nay-sayers like napalm cleanses skin.)

If dreary fools drench our parades weeping for squandered braves,
renounce, recoil, misread, rebuke as though they spit on graves.

The tragic tales our veterans tell don't fit our marching song;
Accounts of anger, loss, remorse we must consider wrong.

No place or space for memories or complicating story;
With histories purged of paradox, we'll drown them out with glory!

Hide black and blue, hide crimson stains, hide wasted lives from sight.
Smother the dead with brilliant flags of red and blue and white!

Forget their anguished woes, regrets, the lost ideals of youth:
With honoring throng's triumphant myth, displace the tragic truth.