Poem #56

For quite some time, and rightly,

The associations of poison gas

Were stable:

Conscripts from ol’ Blighty,

Panicking through gas masks as best they

Were able.

They even dubbed the thing mustard

(Which makes sulphur sound benign as Devonshire

Custard).

But now a Salisbury bench

Seeks to suffocate that scene from

The trench,

And the children of Douma,

Basemented, know world law might prosecute

Sooner.

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