Why do we need our killing machines When nature will oblige?

Into the earth fair Seamus Goes with his squat pen, Felled by merely falling Into mortal frailty, All of Irelands grieving, For the Ulster Orpheus Title hed have spurned for snootiness Unfit to his guttural glories. The way hed be mouthing his vowels, Roundy like the swallows head, He made of poetry a real and tasty Music, shaping the notes of Common things into Uncommon revelations, That could shoot down Like Orpheuss singing Into a realm of warm and meaty darkness The souls cellar of bliss; ---Now youre pouring on the treacle, He says from his safe perch among immortals-Here above the grave The fools are talking war again, Gentle man, we could have used Your transcendence one more time, As we reason our reason away; We need your inner alchemy For making gold from grief.