It was a gruesome sight,
With musket balls, sabres, and bayonets,
Two armies of great might,
Each fighting on their own soil for what's right,
As every soldier does,
Oceans of their blood in the veins of trees,
That were still saplings during the fracas.
Thousands of men lost in the blink of eyes,
Torn apart, blown to hell,
This is the history of a nation,
That some say does quite well,
While others not,
Depends what 'quite well' means,
Relative freedom for a good handful,
Not much has changed since the good ol' eighteens.