I raised three children here.
By myself, sword in hand.
Blood, sweat and tears
After the bastards, murdered my man.

We went after them of course.
I was a commander.
Captain of the Queens feared fighting force.
Tracked them across the desert, right into the mountains.
Three long hot months, day after day, night after night.
Found the camp at the mouth of a gorge,
As the darkness was giving way to a murky daylight.
Eagerly anticipating a bloodbath.
One hundred and twenty ferocious women.
The glory days.
We were warriors!
We were warriors back then.

It started to rain, a soft steady drizzle.
Not a patch of blue anywhere in the sky.
Drenched in water and thirsty for vengeance
A fistful of razor-sharp steel and blood in my eye.
Seated on the edge of insanity.
Graveyard still.
Exploding like thunder.
We went for the kill.
I lost sixteen good friends that day.
But not a single one of those Sob's walked away.
It was a statement delivered in blood, loud and clear.
No paper required, not a single spoken word.
Not a single attack in fifty plus years.
Somewhere, someplace, somebody heard.

All good things will eventually end.
Especially if complacency and good times, 
have fattened the hen.
Riding with impunity.
Not a care in the world.
They are back on our doorsteps.
A dirty old banner is about to be unfurled.

We are talking peace now.
God almighty!
It breaks my heart to hear them speak.
My old comrades.
Rambling in the tongue of the coward and the weak.
Pandering to the new generation.
Arrogant fools!
Pampered, spoilt and breast-fed on higher education.
Single mindedly placing their trust in the pen and the written word.
The namby-pamby set.
Blatantly ignoring their history and lessons 
learnt the hard way, via the gory sword.

Maybe I'm misinterpreting the current signs.
Perhaps, as my children cheerfully point out,
Ma you're stuck in ancient times.
Maybe I'm old fashioned.
Maybe I'm just plain wrong.
But I have always believed that "peace" only 
thrives in the shadow of the strong.
There are barbarians at the gate. 
Chomping at the bit.
Fueled by envy, fanaticism and hate.
They perceive us as soft, fruit ripe for the picking.
You don't ride one hundred miles, dressed to kill,
simply to hear your enemy whimpering.

I raised three children here.
By myself, sword in hand.
Blood, sweat and tears
Without any fear of beast or man.

We've developed a new culture, a new way of life.
A style nobody today is willing to die to defend.
Lambs in the Lions cage.
Ah, the glory days.
We were warriors!
We were warriors back then.
 
We Were Wariors - written for Millennium Bitch.Com
copyright © 2002 Ahkenaton  All rights reserved